Caretaker pokes his head into Whumpee's room, concern bright in his eyes. The lights are still off, and the lump in the blankets appears to still be asleep.
Odd- Whumpee never sleeps in.
"Kiddo?" Caretaker calls, inching further into the room. He doesn't want to disturb them, but he'd like to make sure they're okay...
He reaches their side and finds exactly what he'd feared. Whumpee's gaze slides up to his, eyes fever-bright. Dried tear tracks coat their cheeks, and they look just about ready to shed more.
"You look like hell," Caretaker winces, reaching out to flatten his hand against their forehead. The fever he finds isn't surprising, but certainly isn't a comfort.
Their eyes flutter shut, face still pinched in discomfort. "I feel like hell."
this is somewhat inspired by some bad illnesses i had back in august, september, and november(mainly covid, laryngitis, and some bad colds) it's also somewhat inspired by a story that i read a bit of, as well as a scene from a webcomic, and also a scene from a reboot of "Unknown Soldier" hope you enjoy
-------
The whumpee's trudging through the wilderness, their body sore and wracked with pain, they feel exhaustion slowly making itself known. The ground slowly starts to sway and tilt, disappearing beneath the injured whumpee. The whumpee accepts this, but they still try to fight the dizzying nausea and headache as they collapse, unknowing of when they'd be safe.
-
The whumpee starts coming to.... They open their eyes, the world distorted in their sight, muddied into distorted shapes and sounds that slowly grow more coherent, yet their head still swims, and their body feels sore. "Seems like you're awake." a voice says. The whumpee turns their head, seeing a caretaker nearby, holding a cloth. The whumpee tries to get up, but the dizziness returns threefold, and the now patched up injuries ache.
"Woah there, You've been out for awhile, try to not exhaust yourself right now." The caretaker says, gently resting one hand on the whumpee's shoulder, laying them back down.
The whumpee opens their eyes again; having closed them when they hastily tried to get up, now noticing the bandages wrapped on their body.
"How long have I been out for?" the whumpee asks.
"About 2 days, you were quite honestly conked out when I found you, I brought you back here and help tend to your afflictions, you were also quite feverish too." the caretaker said.
Idk if you're still taking requests from the prompt list, but IF YOU ARE-
Can I maybe please request a combination of🥣,🛏, and 💭 please?
absolutely! this is a new combo of prompts so this was a fun one - hope you enjoy!!
🥣 - warm soup | 🛏 - extra time in bed | 💭 - soft thoughts/pet names
“B, you’re gonna be late.”
B moans and pulls the twisted tangle of blankets back over their head, unwilling to leave the warmth of their bed in the cold winter morning. “Time to get up already?”
“From the way you sound? No, it’s not." A's brows furrow in concern over how raspy and weak B sounds. "But last night, you told me to make sure you were up and moving by now.”
“Five more minutes," B moans from under the covers. They had planned to ge to work early this morning to get ahead on a couple projects, but after an awful night’s sleep, that plan was immediately on the back burner. A's eyebrows raise in doubt, but they leave B and do as they're asked.
Once they’re alone, B blinks once, twice, trying to will away the clouds of sleep that still hang in their vision. Their throat is raw, their eyes feel swollen and gritty from the lack of sleep, their head is pounding, and on top of it all, they feel chilled, even under three thick quilts. But still, they push themselves up on shaky arms, willing themselves to awaken and face the day in their sorry state.
When A returns to the bedroom five minutes later, B’s managed to perch themselves on the edge of the mattress. They’re hunched over, clutching a thick bathrobe around their shoulders, staring blankly at the wall with tired, shadowed eyes.
“B, are you sure you’re feeling okay? You look…rough.”
“Didn’t sleep well.” Their voice is paper-thin and scratchy, and A doesn’t miss the way their head bobs slightly, as if staying upright is too tall an order. A sudden chill rattles their teeth, and they hug themselves tighter and draw the bathrobe closer to their neck. “It’s so drafty in here. Did you open the windows last night?”
“I don’t think so. I actually turned the heat up because the weather took a turn.” A frowns, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re cold?”
B nods as the chills race up and down their spine, and they rub their aching arms in a futile bid to warm up. Now that they’re out from under the covers, it feels like someone’s dumped a bucket of ice water over their whole body in a windy snowstorm. “Froze all night. I just can’t get warm.”
A’s face visibly softens, and they cross the room and pick up an extra blanket to wrap around B, then sit down next to them on the bed and pull them into a hug. “You’re shivering, you poor thing.” Then, they brush the back of their hand across B’s forehead, and B leans into the touch like it’s the only thing keeping them upright.
A’s hand is gentle as they cup B’s face, then migrate down to B’s neck, where they lightly press against their skin. “You feel awfully warm, hon. Lymph nodes are pretty swollen, too. You sure you don’t want to lay back down?”
They expect protests, but B just tips over onto their shoulder like a rag doll and shrugs, head laying heavy against them. “Am I sick?”
“Oh honey. I think you are.” A can feel the fever radiating from their forehead. If A’s got any say in it, B isn’t leaving their bed at all today. When they go to wrap an arm around B’s shoulders, B slides forward and their head falls in A’s lap.
“I…can’t seem to sit up,” B whispers faintly.
A lays a comforting hand on B’s shoulders, rubbing them gently. “Be honest. When did you start feeling bad?”
B twitches one shoulder in a pathetic shrug. “Throat hurt yesterday, but thought it was just allergies.” They swallow and wince - their throat is on fire now. “But it got worse overnight. Couldn’t sleep at all.“ Their lower lip quivers and A sees the tears pooling in their exhausted eyes. “I’m so tired.”
A’s face is sympathetic as they stroke B’s hair, hand cool against their feverish forehead. “B, even if you weren’t sick, there’s no way you could function at work on no sleep.”
B just curls closer. “Probably.”
They sit there together for a while, before A breaks the silence with a soft question. “So what do you want to do this morning?”
B groans and shakes their head. They just ache all over, and despite the layers and A’s warmth, they’re still so stiff and bone-chilled they can barely move. The idea of walking to the bathroom to get ready makes them want to cry. “I just want to be back under the covers.”
A squeezes their shoulder and helps them crawl back under the quilts, adding an extra blanket on top for good measure. “Bed it is, then. Can I call someone to let them know you’re not feeling well and won’t be coming in?”
After a mumbled name and phone number from B, A slips away to make the call. B burrows deeper under the covers. They’ve been sick before, but this is a new level of illness. They’re too tired to do much more than stare at the wall and shiver under the covers, but their throat hurts too badly to get comfortable enough to sleep. Instead, they fade in and for what could be ten minutes or ten hours, all time lost to their fever-addled mind.
A soft knock at the door jolts them, and they see A at the door, holding a bowl of something in their hand.
“Sorry…I shouldn’t have woken you,” A winces.
“You didn’t.”
“Called your work. They said everything’s covered, so just focus on feeling better.”
B murmurs softly in gratitude, and A comes to their bedside. They feel the bed dip as A sits on the mattress, slipping a cool hand behind A’s neck to check their fever, then brushing the back of it over A’s cheek.
“Apparently flu and strep have been making the rounds at your work. This thing really knocked you out, didn’t it, sweetheart?”
“Mmhm.” B can’t manage much more than that, and it’s too much work to open up their eyes.
“I just…I made some chicken broth for you. If you’d like it. Just figured it might help your throat and warm you up a bit. I can help you sip it.”
It may be the lack of sleep or the fever making them weepy, but B could cry right then and there - that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for them while they were sick.
“Want me to help you sit up?”
B nods, and A helps prop them up, careful to keep an extra blanket wrapped tightly around B’s shoulders. With A’s hand supporting, they cling to the bowl with shaky hands, savoring the warmth in spite of their fever. They take a few sips - and the broth is the perfect temperature to soothe their raw throat.
Again, their eyes well up with tears. “I don’t deserve you, A.”
“Sure you do.” A’s smiling. “I’m a great caretaker, and you deserve the best.”
“I’m serious.” The tears are back. “You’re kind and wonderful and caring and I’ve never met anyone as selfless as you.”
“Oh come on now.” A’s trying to brush it off, but B hears the catch in their voice. “You’re gonna make me insufferable with compliments like that. Save your voice.”
They only manage a few more sips, but already they can feel the warmth spreading from their core to their chilled bones, easing the stiff achiness of their joints. Afterward, they pass back the bowl and huddle back under their covers.
A sets the bowl down, then picks up another blanket at the foot of B’s bed, covering B’s curled up body with it - another layer of protection from the winter cold. Then, instead of leaving, A slides themselves in the spot in the bed behind B, slipping under the top layer and draping an arm over their blanketed shoulders to pull B close.
“What’re you doing?” A’s already drifting back off into unconsciousness.
“Staying with you. If you want me to.”
“I do.” And those are the last words from B’s lips before they slip into wonderful sleep, A’s arm around their bundled form.
thanks for being so patient! (apparently i'm having a phase of writer's block where i can only write cold, sick characters so apologies if this is too much like the last 76 fics i've written)
💙 - cold / flu symptoms | 🤍 - forehead kisses | 📘 - reading in bed
-----------------------
It’s early morning, so B is surprised to see A beat them downstairs and already has a roaring fire built in their cabin’s hearth.
A’s curled on the hearth dressed in thermal pajamas, crossing their arms and leaning into the heat. “Was your room a little chilly last night?”
B frowns. “I guess they might’ve been, but I had plenty of blankets. Were you warm enough?”
A shrugs and sniffles. “Guess not.” A sudden shiver runs through them and they hunch their shoulders and rub their thermal-clad arms. “I sure wish this place had central heating. I can’t shake the chill I got during our hike yesterday.”
Suddenly, all the pieces of last night click together - A curled up in the closest spot to the fire, their unusual quietness as they sipped their hot cocoa clutched to their chest, and the way they uncharacteristically curled into B’s side and asked for a hug before they went to bed early.
“I told you you needed a warmer coat.” B walks over to the couch and grabs a red flannel blanket, draping it over A and giving their shoulders a reassuring rub. “There. Nice and warm. You feeling okay otherwise?”
A accepts the thick layer gratefully and pulls it tighter around their shoulders. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Just need a few minutes to get warmed up.”
But it takes more than a few minutes. An hour later, A hasn’t moved - in fact, B, thinks they might’ve moved closer to the fire. A closer look reveals a pale face with glassy eyes, and they just can’t stop coughing. B can’t help but notice that they’re still shivering.
“Hey, you. You still cold?
A coughs and rubs their nose with their sleeve before hugging themselves, hunching their shoulders up to their ears. “I don’t feel good,” they croak in a wavering voice.
B frowns - this is more than just a chill from a hike. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“My throat hurts and my whole body aches.” Another shudder shakes through them, an audible staccato breath through chattering teeth. “And I’m freezing. I’ve been sitting here for ages and my head is burning but I can’t stop shivering.”
B holds the back of their hand to A’s forehead. “You’re warm, alright. If you’re feeling chilled, that’s probably a fever.”
A moans quietly, pulling the blanket tighter. “Of course this week of all weeks is the one I get sick.”
B pulls their febrile body into a hug and A presses closer, trying to eke out any warmth they can, coughing into B's shoulder. “C’mon. If you’re achy, sitting on cold stone can’t feel good. Let’s get you tucked in a warm bed.”
B helps A to their feet, wrapping a protective arm around A's shoulders and A curls into their side for extra body heat. It’s slow going - A’s moving like they have the joints of an 80-year-old - but eventually they make it to their bedroom.
When they get to their bed, A immediately collapses, blanket and all, on top of the covers, shaking with chills and exertion. B covers them up with blankets and lights the wood stove in the corner. It’s not really cold enough outside to need it - the fireplace heats the cabin alright - but they figure it’ll at least offer a little extra comfort to A.
After tucking A in up to their chin, B pokes their head in the kitchen where C and D are making breakfast. “Hey, A’s not feeling well this morning.”
“Oh no,” C says, drying their hand on a dish towel. “What’s wrong?”
“They’ve got a cough, aches, fever, chills, the works. It hit them this morning.”
D groans. “If they’ve got the flu, we’re all going down.”
C elbows them. “Have a heart. Until we actually get sick, they’re the one who’s actually suffering.” C turns back to A. “Is there anything we can do?”
“They’re warming up in bed, but I thought I'd bring them some tea with honey."
"On it." C's already putting the kettle on the stove and pulling out the tea selections from the cupboard. As the water heats up, D rustles up some cold medicine and a few tissues
When they bring the tea and supplies up, they’re surprised to see A's dragged themselves and their blanket out of bed, shivering as they're rocking themselves back and forth, sitting on the floor inches from the woodstove. “A, honey, what are you doing out of bed?”
“It’s cold in bed,” they whimper through chattering teeth, leaning in and rubbing their arms as they cough weakly. “I’m cold.” It’s agonizing for them, being this close to a heat source and yet certain they’ve never felt colder in their life.
B’s heart breaks and they rush to A’s side, gathering their trembling body into a hug and pressing a kiss to their damp forehead. “Shhh. It’s just the fever doing its job. You’re okay.”
A presses closer against B's body, their fevered limbs desperate for anything to make them feel warmer than they are right now. It feels like ice itself is swirling in their veins, freezing their body from the inside out, yesterday's chill making a home in their bones.
B gives A another squeeze, rubbing warming circles on their back. “How about we both hop back in bed for a bit? I promise it'll be warmer under the covers in no time."
A casts a longing glance at the wood stove, but they acquiesce and nod, allowing themselves to be led back to bed and under the covers again. B follows them in, tucking the blankets around both of them and pulling a very shivery A closer to them. A coughs into their own elbow, wincing as they clear their throat.
“Here. I made you tea. Can you manage a few sips?” A nods once and B helps them slide up and rest against their chest. Picking up the mug of tea, they let A curl their cold hands around the mug and take a few sips, supporting them the whole time until they nod, signaling that they're finished.
The woodstove's pops and crackles creates a comforting aura, and A nestles closer, resting their head on B's chest. Another shudder ripples through them, and they cling tighter to B. “Should’ve never gone on that hike.”
B shrugs. “The hike didn’t make you sick, it just kickstarted things. Although a 3-hour walk around a windy lake in a windbreaker would chill anyone to the bone, fever or not.”
Another shiver from A. “No wonder I froze under three blankets last night.”
B’s heart clenches. They wish there was something they could do to take A’s mind off how miserable they felt. Then they see the novel on A’s side table, and an idea forms. “You reading this one while we're here?”
A nods against B’s chest. “It’s one of my favorites.”
B uses their free arm to pick up the book, flipping open to the bookmarked page. "Want me to read to you for a while?"
A shakes their head before coughing into their elbow. “I’d like that.”
So that’s how they spend the next few hours - A curled up at B's side, their head laying on their chest. B's got their free arm wrapped around A's shoulders, tracing gentle circles as they read. A's in and out - sometimes they're awake, staring off into space, and other times they're snoring lightly. but B doesn't mind – as long as A's getting the rest they desperately need.
It's early afternoon when D knocks lightly at the door, poking their head in the door. "How are they?" they whisper, eyes flitting to B's curled up form.
B slips their hand to A's forehead. "Still got a fever, but at least they're asleep."
D nods, stepping in holding a plate and a glass of water. "C & I figured you might be hungry after taking care of them all day." They fidget a bit before darting closer, only taking a moment to deposit the plate before stepping back by the wood stove and busying themselves filling it back up with wood.
B can't help but smile. Even D, constantly afraid of every germ, was trying to help in their own way. "D."
"Hmm?" They pop their head back up.
"Thank you."
D gives a shy smile back of their own as they turn to leave the room. "I'll check back in a bit if that's okay."
As D leaves, B looks down at A. They're fully asleep now, a hand curled into the material of B's sweatshirt, blankets pulled up over their ears, head laid up against B's chest so they can listen to the comforting thump of their heartbeat.
The utter innocence of it floods B with a fierce protectiveness they didn't know they had in them, and they lean down to press a kiss to A's too-warm forehead.
a sick, shivering whumpee who desperately wants to crawl back into bed to rest and get warm, but can't because they don't want anyone to know they're not feeling well and that’d be a dead giveaway. so they push themselves to act like it’s fine when they just keep feeling worse and worse throughout the day.
a little continuation of a fever prompt, the first part here and the second part by @sonderwalker here! from this prompt list
Cheers to our pining boys stuck together in the snow
______
The email he had been anxiously awaiting for dings his phone, and in the early morning light of his room, only a single lamp to illuminate the intimate space, he rolls over in bed to fumble it from the nightstand, blinking at the bright screen.
To the University of Washington community,
For the safety of our students and staff, classes have been cancelled for the day due to the snow conditions and road closures. Please wait for updates from your teachers on how best to proceed with assignments and exams. Updates on future cancellations will be issued nightly no later than 7 pm. Best,
President Palpatine
The same giddy relief that once met him as a college student still worms its way into his heart as a professor, an unexpected day off, no plans ahead of him, just hours and hours of free time. Except, he supposes, a quick email out to his students to continue their essays as normal and wait for the update on Friday’s class. He isn’t sad about losing the day’s lesson plan, it had mostly been a filler class.
He hums lazily, a sleepy grin pulling his lips back.
For the first time in weeks, he clicks the lock button and rolls over, stuffing his face into his pillow, and falls back asleep.
___
Hours later, the sun already cresting in the sky, hidden behind layers and layers of clouds shedding snow, he pads around his kitchen, pulling ingredients out of his fridge and pantry: carrots, chicken, celery, chicken broth, some garlic, an onion, and some noodles.
When he was younger, his mom had always whipped together chicken noodle soup on the colder days, and when she passed away when he was a teenager, he kept the tradition alive. In the silent, airy space of the kitchen, he feels closer to her cutting up the ingredients and carefully dropping them into the pot, can feel her gentle hand guiding him. The ache of her death has long since passed, but Obi-wan can’t help but wish she were here with him, oiling the stove for the chicken and passing him the garlic to press.
Somehow, in the many, many years since her death, the habit of cooking for two hasn’t left him; every time he makes this recipe, he ends up with days worth of leftovers.
The wood floor is cold beneath his bare feet; he didn’t think to put warm clothing on before coming downstairs, head still foggy from sleeping past noon. He knows his hair is sticking out in every direction, and that he could probably use a quick beard trim, but there isn’t anyone to judge him here. No pets, no roommates, just him and his big empty house.
The smell of the soup bubbles up at him: rich and inviting. He takes a spoon and sips on the broth, using his teeth to grab a very hot carrot that mashes easily in his mouth, a good sign that he can turn the heat down to let it simmer while he gets ready for the day. Some small part of him knows his destination, but the majority of him is still in denial. He has so much soup to share, though. Why let it go to waste? Besides, it’ll be a quick drop off so he can come home and finish the blanket he’s knitting, maybe read a few chapters of his library books. There’s something about an expected day off that makes the mundane feel enthralling.
He pads back upstairs, lost in thought as he goes through the motions of pulling a sturdy wool sweater over his head, brushing his teeth, combing his hair back, ignoring the shoddy state of his beard. Anakin had looked so horrible the other day, all pale skin and hollowed out eyes, his voice catching on itself, and god, his cough. Worry pangs Obi-wan’s heart, did Anakin have anyone to take care of him? Make sure he doesn’t die of a fever? He can’t go out in this weather to get take-out, and there’s no way he would be cooking with the state he’s in.
In the back of his head, Obi-wan knows there are very large excuses he’s making for the car crash of the truth: he wants to go see Anakin.
When he gets back downstairs, the soup is perfect. His mom would be proud.
___
Snow cakes the road ahead of him, and what should have been a ten minute drive turns into a forty minute one. Obi-wan thinks he has at least six different knots in his back and neck from sitting so close to the steering wheel the entire time, peering intently through the fast-paced windshield wipers as if the effort of looking harder would have any effect on his ability to see in front of him. When he finally pulls up in front of Anakin’s apartment building and finds a neat little spot to back his car into, he lets out a deep breath and slumps into his seat. Maybe this was not as good of an idea as he had hoped it would be.
He hadn’t even texted. Should he text Anakin? Is showing up at his door, soup in hand, too much? Too forward? Obi-wan is already anxious about pushing the bounds of their relationship too far; what if Anakin thought he was trying to groom him, thought he was a creepy old man with nothing better to do?
Obi-wan hits his head against the steering wheel.
The weird thing is, he doesn’t mind how inappropriate their relationship had become. Obi-wan had liked coming to his building, liked texting him about casual plans. He just worries his enthusiasm is one-sided.
It’s been so long since he’s had anything resembling a relationship, so he feels brand new to it again; it’s like riding a bike: the skill will never leave you, but if you take a ten year gap, you might need to wobble a bit before you glide. Obi-wan is wobbling.
Because he does have a crush, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why he’s here, sitting in his cooling car with homemade soup, outside of some boy’s apartment building? Why else would he go to such measures- especially on his day off? God, he feels so juvenile.
He hits his head on the steering wheel again.
The cold is starting to seep through the seams of the car, so he takes a deep breath, grabs his soup, and steps out into the snow. It crunches underneath his boots, leaving a trail of footprints all the way to the door of the building, which swings open easily for Obi-wan.
He fishes his phone out of his pocket. Anakin had texted which one he lived in, but it had felt too… like too much, last time he came. He hadn’t wanted to intrude on Anakin’s personal space.
#344.
The elevator ride is both too short and too fast, his anxiety rising with each floor. What if Anakin didn’t like chicken noodle soup? He definitely should’ve texted. But the doors glide open and the wide expanse of the hall looms in front of him, stretching for what seems like forever in both directions. The floorplan seems to be circular; a little guide that reads “301-322 left, 323-344 right” with arrows points him in the right direction, so he sets off to the right, each step waking up a new butterfly in his stomach.
When he reaches 344, he stares at the door for a moment, considering the fact that Anakin is on the other side of the thin wall, completely unaware of Obi-wan. Something yanks at him to turn back, but Obi-wan would feel even more pathetic if he went home with a full bowl of soup, and Anakin does probably need it, so. Here goes nothing.
The bell ding-dongs from the interior, the sound muffled. Obi-wan hears nothing, and then slow footsteps and a lock being unlatched.
Anakin is wearing his sweater.
“Obi-w- Professor Kenobi, hey,” Anakin rasps out, eyes wide open, clearly startled, and sounding a bit better than he had a few days ago, but not by much. His bangs are held back by a little clip, shooting a tuft of hair straight into the air. “Sorry if I missed your text, I’ve been asleep-”
“Ah,” Obi-wan shuffles in place, embarrassed. “I didn’t text, which I realize now that I should have, but-”
“No,” Anakin cuts in, “that’s okay.”
They stand there in awkward silence before Anakin points at the bowl Obi-wan is clutching to his chest.
“You brought soup?”
Obi-wan looks down to the container like he’s never seen it before, cheeks burning like lava. “Yes! I, well, you see my mother and I always made soup when it snowed, and I always make extra, so I thought you’d, well,” he chances a peek at Anakin, whose features are slackened in a soft smile, “I thought you could use some given that you’re sick and it’s snowing.”
“Have you eaten yet?” Anakin asks, ignoring his bumbling explanation.
“No,” he thinks back, “I didn’t get the chance.”
Anakin drags his door open and steps back, gesturing for Obi-wan to come inside. “Let’s share, then.”
Obi-wan balks at the open door, because he knows once he crosses that threshold there is no going back between them. He’d have officially been in Anakin’s apartment, sharing homemade soup with Anakin, taking care of him while he’s sick. The intimacy of seeing how someone lives, to see all the details of their existence on display, who they are when no one else is around… that sort of intimacy frightens Obi-wan.
“I don’t want to be an imposition,” he starts, only to get cut off by a particularly nasty sneeze from Anakin. “Bless you.”
“You’re not, so come on.” Anakin reaches forward and tugs on his arm, and really, Obi-wan has no choice.
While he had never actively imagined Anakin’s living space, he had always assumed it would be something akin to a sparse bachelor pad, dirty and meant for college students who couldn’t afford any better. But this is a pleasant surprise: a black rug and couch sits neatly against the wall of a tidy and cozy living room, branching off to a kitchen and a door Obi-wan assumes is Anakin’s bedroom. There are a few mirrors behind the couch, and a few (fake?) plants spotted around the room, even a candle on the coffee table.
Anakin leads him into the kitchen and Obi-wan sees now this is where the mess lies; computer parts, nuts, bolts, tools, and loose wires scatter the counter, leaving little room for anything else save the sink and a hand towel. He stands there and waits for Anakin to clear a space for the bowl, muttering about how he didn’t know company would be over otherwise he would’ve picked up a little.
Obi-wan doesn’t know if he even wants to ask what Anakin is making.
The bowl is transferred into the microwave, cooking for a few minutes on low to properly reheat, and Obi-wan sets out to find some spoons so he’s not left in awkward, still silence.
“Sorry there’s no table, I never really have anyone over and it takes up so much space, so,” Anakin is blushing, either embarrassed to have someone over or still running a fever. Maybe a bit of both. “Oh, here, in that drawer,” he motions to Obi-wan, crowding into his space to pull open the drawer. Obi-wan stiffens at their proximity; he can feel the heat pouring off of Anakin, and he grips the spoons like his life depends on it.
They perch by the counter, listening to the hum of the microwave.
“What are you doing during winter break?” Anakin asks him, breaking the quiet.
Obi-wan breaths in, thinking of his answer. “I’m not sure, probably just relax. Maybe work on my library books, plan for winter quarter.”
Anakin scoffs, and it turns into a full blown hacking spree. When he’s done, he winces. “Sorry, your plans are so sad my whole body freaked out.”
He snorts. “My plans aren’t sad. What are you doing, then?”
“Well, now that I’ve graduated, I suppose I should be looking for a job, so probably that.” Anakin stares up at the soup rotating in the microwave in contemplation.
Something small and sad tugs at Obi-wan’s heart. He had forgotten that Anakin wouldn’t be around anymore. No more impromptu office visits.
“But,” Anakin continues, “it would be nice to have help with my resume and interviewing.” He glances at Obi-wan out of the corner of his eyes.
The microwave beeps: the soup is finished reheating.
“Of course, I’d be happy to help.” Obi-wan says, warmth flooding his tone. He’s grateful that Anakin still wants him in his life, still wants his help.
Anakin sniffles and splits the soup into two bowls, handing one to Obi-wan, who is still holding both their spoons.
“You wanna watch something? We can sit on the couch.” Anakin says, and motions for Obi-wan to follow. Obi-wan tentatively settles into the couch, which is surprisingly cushy, as Anakin flips open Netflix and pulls up The Great British Baking Show.
“Is this okay? It’s kind of addictive.” Anakin looks suddenly self-conscious about his choice in television, grabbing a set of glasses from his coffee table. They are way too big for him and nearly slide down his nose in seconds. Obi-wan might combust.
“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
Anakin shifts. “Only to see long distances, I mostly just use them for watching things.”
Obi-wan nods at that, and throws a hand up in the air towards the TV screen. “This is fine, I like cooking shows.”
“They’re definitely my guilty pleasure, I’ve always wished I was better at cooking.” Anakin blows on the soup on his spoon, eyes glued to the TV.
The hosts introduce the challenge, and Obi-wan looks down at his soup, stirring it all absentmindedly. “I can teach you, if you want. My mom passed a lot onto me before she, well.” Obi-wan smiles at him. “I’d like to think I’m a pretty good cook.”
Anakin pushes his glasses back on his face. “If the soup is anything to go by, I believe you.”
He chuckles, shifting his attention back to the TV. Helping Anakin find a job, teaching him how to cook- they’re both just trying to find excuses to stay in each other’s lives. It’d be endearing if it weren’t so sad.
The episode drags out, a winner is named and someone gets sent home, and Anakin and Obi-wan are long finished with their soup, the bowls having been discarded onto the coffee table a while ago. When the credits roll, neither of them get up, and the next episode autoplays. Obi-wan hopes he isn’t overstaying his visit, but Anakin seems comfortable and relaxed. Anakin offers him a blanket, and Obi-wan drapes it over his lower body, slouching further into the couch.
Over the next few hour long episodes, they seem to inch closer, fully lounging now. Jokes are made, laughter is shared, and Obi-wan keeps handing him tissues, grateful that he isn’t wiping his snot on the sweater’s sleeve.
He still can’t believe he’s sitting here on Anakin’s couch, watching a cooking show, while Anakin sits next to him wearing one of his sweaters.
Maybe he is the one with a delirious fever?
The fourth episode draws to a close, and Obi-wan spares a glance at one of the windows, where the afternoon had faded into evening. “I still don’t think she should have won, did you see the state of her frosting?” He stands up and stretches, sighing in relief when a few of his bones pop, laughing when Anakin’s do the same. “I should probably get going, though, it’s getting dark.”
But when the pair make it to the window, they are greeted by glistening white, snow almost completely covering the cars parked outside. There’s no way he can drive home in this, and they both know it. The air seems to thicken between them.
“Hey, you can crash on the couch and drive home once the snowplow has been through?” Anakin, though standing right next to him, seems miles away, his tone small and unsure.
“Surely not, you’ve already let me stay long as it is. I’ll…” he trails off, thinking.
“What, walk home?” Anakin supplies, shaking his head. “Absolutely not, you can stay. I don’t mind,” he places a hand on Obi-wan’s arm, “really.”
“You’re right, I don’t have much of a choice.” Obi-wan laughs under his breath. Still, if he did have the choice, he’d want to stay. Not that he’d ever admit that to Anakin.
Anakin takes the few steps back to the couch, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around himself like a cape. “Well, should we finish the season then?”
_____
It’s midnight by the time the pair are too tired to stay awake, drifting off into separate spaces.
“Can I borrow something to sleep in?” Obi-wan asks Anakin, who is standing in the doorway to his room. From what Obi-wan can see, it looks a lot like the living room, all blacks and soft fabrics.
Anakin’s eyes widen. “Uh, yes. Hold on.” He disappears into his room and comes back with a blue flannel pajama set. “Here, the bathroom is just across the kitchen.”
Obi-wan takes the little pile of clothing from him with a soft thanks and retreats to the bathroom to change. The pants are entirely too long on him, and the shirt hangs on him, clearly meant for someone who has a little broader shoulders. But the set smells like Anakin, and Obi-wan wants to breathe it in forever.
When he comes out, Anakin bites back a smile, holding his lower lip between his teeth. He doesn’t say anything though, and Obi-wan is both disappointed and relieved.
“So there’s a bunch of blankets on the couch for you, let me know if you need anything else.” He says, backing into his room.
Obi-wan clears his throat. “Of course. Goodnight, Anakin.”
Anakin dips his head and closes his door. “Goodnight.”
In the dark of the living room, Obi-wan shakes the blankets out so they lay flat over the couch, and slips his legs under them to get comfortable, laying on back to stare at the ceiling.
What a day.
If someone had told him this was what his snow day would’ve looked like, he would’ve laughed in their face. Just under two weeks ago, they had been huddled together in his office, working on Anakin’s paper like normal. And now, he’s spending the night at Anakin’s apartment. And while Anakin technically isn’t a student anymore, and certainly not his student any more by a long shot, there’s still a sticky and uncomfortable unease sitting in his gut; he doesn’t know how old Anakin is, but Obi-wan is surely much older than him. Plus, he doesn’t know if there’s a power play at hand, what if Anakin just thinks he’s being a creepy old man and feels obligated to let him stay?
But he thinks about the way Anakin’s flashed with happiness when Obi-wan laughed at one of his jokes during the show, the way they inched towards each other, Anakin’s face when Obi-wan came out of the bathroom in his pajamas.
Needless to say, Obi-wan doesn’t get much sleep. Instead, he thinks about the fact that Anakin is also lying down, just a thin apartment wall in between them, and watches the large snowflakes drift down in silent waves outside.
Obi-wan wonders if Anakin is sleeping in his sweater. He hopes he is.
“you’re a little mixed up right now. ” from the fever prompts
❤️❤️❤️
aaaaaaaaa i actually had to think about what to write for this one but i have thought of something, so yay! it’s a continuation of your drabble that I requested from you, which you can read here
and it’s from this prompt list!
It was now the end of the week, and Obi-Wan sat at his desk, scrolling through his emails. The sun was lower in the sky, telling that soon evening would be here, despite the fact that it was only just past four in the afternoon.
The windows of his office were closed, but he could still feel a chill coming through. The weather for the entire week had been cold and wet, teetering on snowing, and then would be just warm enough to rain during the day. Only for it to freeze over at night.
And while the weather annoyed him, it didn’t concern him. What concerned him was ever since that last email from Anakin, he hadn’t heard anything from him. And while part of him was saying that this was because he wanted his sweater back, another larger part of him could not deny the concern that had slowly beginning to build as the week progressed, and he still heard nothing.
He knew that the flu was nothing to joke about, and there had been a particularly bad strain that was circulating around the campus, causing several of his own students to end up in the hospital.
He refreshed his email, doing the best to put the thought of Anakin in the hospital out of his mind.
And his eyes widened when he saw a new email in his inbox- not from another student trying to explain why their paper was late, but it was from Anakin, who for the first time in four days, had responded.
He quickly opened the email, clicking on it several times and trying to ignore the way his heart seemed to beat a little faster in his chest as he did so.
‘Sorry for not responding sooner, I’m still pretty sick’ It began, and Obi-Wan immediately felt his heart sink into his chest, the guilt slowly building up from even asking Anakin when he could meet up to get his sweater back.
‘I think I’ll be feeling well enough tomorrow if you want to stop by my place and pick it up? I probably shouldn’t be going out.’ Anakin suggested, and Obi-Wan couldn’t help but smile here. Anakin was a selfless person, almost to a fault most of the time, and while at times it was frustrating, it was also at other times endearing. And this was one of those times.
‘Here’s my address, and my number. Text me when you’re outside!’ And that was the end of it. Obi-Wan stared at the numbers on the bottom of the screen, blinking several times.
And while he had intended to ask Anakin for his personal contact information at some point, he didn’t intend to get it like this. And while he wasn’t upset at the fact that this was how he got it, he was concerned that perhaps Anakin felt pressured to return the sweater. As far as Obi-Wan was concerned, Anakin could keep it for as long as he liked, especially if he was still as sick as he was saying.
But he also had to consider that Anakin probably would not see and respond to another email in time for Obi-Wan to tell him that it was more than alright that he keep the sweater until he felt better. That he didn’t mind at all, and that he was happy that Anakin was getting some use out of it.
His eyes scanned over the phone number at the bottom of the screen again, before slowly pulling out his phone and entering it as a new contact.
It felt strange.
On the surface, there was nothing strange about what he was doing, but it felt strange in his heart, and he didn’t want to think about why. Not yet, at least.
But it was now the next day, and Obi-Wan found himself staring down at a map on his phone, the destination being Anakin’s apartment building. It was close to the campus, and located where he knew a lot of students lived. There were also professors that lived in the nearby neighborhood, and so it was a place that Obi-Wan was familiar with.
The building was only a ten minute drive from where he currently was, which was not his own residence, but a convenience store. He had told himself, that if Anakin was going through all of this trouble to return the sweater despite still clearly being unwell, the least he could do was show up with something nice in return.
Which is how he found himself purchasing some cold and flu medicine, and a box of tea that he was surprised that they carried, but knew that he always enjoyed drinking when he felt unwell.
Grabbing the bag that the cashier placed them in, Obi-Wan quickly walked back out of the store and continued on his way.
‘I’m outside.’ Obi-Wan typed out but then deleted it. He didn’t want to be too blunt, be he also didn’t want to appear vague. He looked down at the empty message bubble and sighed, watching as his breath turned into a cloud of vapor in front of his face.
‘Hello Anakin, It’s Obi-Wan, and I am outside of your building.’ Was that too formal?
He hit send.
It was probably too formal. Obi-Wan groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He stood out in the cold, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying his best to not worry too much. People came and went into and out of the building, but there was no sight of Anakin.
And when their was, Obi-Wan felt a mix of emotions.
First was the initial rush of seeing Anakin that always happened, which was quickly replaced by a frown as he noticed that if anything, Anakin looked worse now than he had at the beginning of the week. He had traded in his thin hoodie for a thicker one, and had the hood pulled over his head. Jeans were replaced by thicker lounge pants, but he was still wearing the same sneakers that he had worn when Obi-Wan last saw him.
Bundled under one arm was the sweater that Obi-Wan had lent him, and the other arm had been brought up towards his face as he coughed harshly into his elbow.
“Sorry this took so-” Anakin began, his voice raspy as he opened the door for Obi-Wan to walk inside.
“You can keep it.” Obi-Wan found himself saying before he had the chance to think of anything else.
“What?” Anakin asked, his voice cracking. He turned aside to cough again before facing Obi-Wan.
“You need it more than I do,” Obi-Wan pointed out, trying to stay as cool and collected as possible.
Anakin blinked at him several times before running a hand over his face.
“I thought you said you wanted it back?” He asked again before turning away to sneeze.
“I did, but had I known that you were still this sick earlier, I wouldn’t have bothered.” Obi-Wan replied with a shrug.
“But... you wanted it back?” Anakin asked again, narrowing his eyes and now Obi-Wan didn’t know if he should laugh or if he should be concerned.
“You seem a little mixed up right now, Anakin.” Obi-Wan noted as he rested a hand on Anakin’s shoulder.
He could feel how Anakin was both trembling and radiating too much heat at the same time. They both stared at each other for a moment, before Obi-Wan let go of Anakin, handing him the bag that was in his other hand.
“And you sound like you could use what’s in here,” Obi-Wan said as Anakin took the bag and opened it.
“You didn’t have to get me all of this,” Anakin whispered hoarsely, looking down at the contents of the bag.
“On the contrary, Anakin you sound horrible.” Obi-Wan replied.
“And I have had several students already end up in the hospital because of this strain of the flu, so I do in fact, think that you needed at least something.”
“Thanks,” Anakin whispered, looking back up at Obi-Wan and smiling softly. But the moment was ruined when Anakin turned away to cough again, and Obi-Wan winced at how it sounded.
“Alright, I think it’s time you head back to bed.” Obi-Wan said after Anakin was done.
Anakin rolled his eyes, a small smile on his face. “Thanks again,” He said softly, crossing his arms over his torso as the door behind them opened, letting in more cold air.
“Think nothing of it, I just want you to get better,” Obi-Wan replied while waving his hand.
“I’ll see you next week?” Anakin asked as Obi-Wan turned to leave.
“Only if you’re well enough to be back, otherwise I will not hesitate to have you go home, as much as I enjoy your company.”
“You enjoy my company?” Anakin asked while sniffling several times.
“Yes, and as much as I’d love to stay and talk, I can see that you’re shivering, and should probably be back in bed.” Obi-wan pointed out.
“But can we talk later?” Anakin asked, his tone cautious but hopeful.
“When you’re better, we can talk.” Obi-Wan replied, before turning to leave again, feeling the cold winter air contrast the burning of his cheeks.
You know what’s one of my favorite specific fever sicknarios?
When someone is so fever ridden and out of it that they can’t articulate their thoughts and end up saying something completely random.
Like the caretaker(s) put them in a cold bath to get their fever down and they’re trying to question why they’re doing it but it ends up coming out like this:
*in their head*: Why am I in a bathtub? Why is it so cold? I don’t like cold. I wanna be warm. Maybe some tea might help. Yeah, tea with lots of honey because my throat kinda hurts. I like honey. Bees are so talented for making honey. Bees are awesome.
*outloud with a really weak voice after being quiet for a while*: Bees are awesome.
And the caretaker(s) could either be super concerned and try to cool them down faster or be sympathetic and agree with them, “Yes, bees are awesome.”
Or maybe both!
