A fic no one asked for: TK winds up sick because he’s not sleeping well since learning about his dad’s diagnosis and because he’s pushing himself too hard to be a better son. (Also, Carlos doesn’t really vibe with fever sex.)
The dreams don’t actually start until a few days after his talk with his dad, after a moment of pure, unfiltered vulnerability spanning from one to the other, but when they do finally start to plague his sleep, they’re terrifying, encompassing his every fear into twisted images of dirty hospitals, blood splashing against walls from violent coughs, two large, decaying organs pressing against him, suffocating him, and his father, withering away before his eyes.
After jerking awake in a cold sweat two nights in a row, TK forgoes sleep because he would much rather take fatigue any day over the spoiled visuals that seem to stain his thoughts, even when he’s awake. He, instead, takes to the internet when he should be resting, researching the side effects of chemo, what to look out for, what dialogue could cause potential triggers, and the most important, the one he’s most determined to achieve by any means necessary, how to care for a cancer patient.
He sleeps only a little, catching one to three hours a day but subconsciously not allowing his body to slip into REM, and his growing exhaustion goes relatively unnoticed until he wakes at three am after nodding off in a chair in his room with a medical book on his lap to a scratchy throat and a slight hint of pressure pushing behind his eyes.
He slips to his feet, quietly resting the book on the chair, and he pads softly across his room to the bathroom, flicking the lights on with a wide yawn. His reflection leaves much to be desired, a pale, drawn man with deep purple bags under his eyes staring back at him.
“Shit,” he mutters, a low whistle, almost impressed with how terrible he’s managed to look, but then he’s turning to cough lightly into the crook of his arm until he’s wincing from the uncomfortable tingle that almost burns against his throat. He hunches over the sink, splashing cool water on his face, and then he’s reaching for the ibuprofen, but when he can hear gagging from his dad’s bedroom, he drops the pill bottle, the loud clattering and rolling fading in the distance as he races out his room.
“Dad?” He shoves his dad’s bathroom door open to see him curled around the toilet, shoulders shaking slightly. The panic in his eyes fades to sympathetic concern, a look he’s been sporting far too much over the last few days, and he crouches beside his dad, dropping a hand to his back to feel his muscles convulsing under his palm. Wincing, he smooths his palm up and down his dad’s back, repeating the action, just as his dad would do for him, until Owen’s finally reaching up to flush the toilet with a groan.
“Sorry I woke you,” Owen rasps out, and TK’s eyes fall just a little.
“You didn’t,” he reassures, spitting out a quick lie when Owen frowns at him. “I was already up. Had to piss.”
“Creepy timing,” Owen says around a weak laugh. “Didn’t realize my stomach and your bladder were in sync.”
Rolling his eyes, TK gets to his feet, reaching a hand out toward Owen. “You’re so weird,” he mutters when Owen’s hand finds his. He pulls him to his feet, a frown threatening to pull at his lips at the ease. His dad’s been dropping weight, and for just a moment, he’s almost pulled back to too-vivid images, but he shakes his head, willing the fear away.
“You done?”
He keeps close to his dad when he sidesteps around him to the sink to rinse his mouth out, eyes trained to the slight tremor in his dad’s steps.
“Yeah,” Owen groans, frowning at his reflection, and TK meets his eyes through the mirror. They share a silent conversation. They’ve been doing that a lot since they talked, neither knowing how to verbally convey what their eyes are practically screaming.
“Are you alright?” Owen finally asks, turning from TK’s pale reflection to see if it’s merely a trick of the light or if his son truly looks ill. His frown deepens, concern taking over his forehead in deep worry lines, when TK’s poor image appears to not be just a trick of the mirror. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” TK says easily, and he doesn’t fight it when Owen reaches the back of his hand to his forehead, only watching with a gaze that’s almost struggling to be patient.
“You don’t feel feverish,” Owen mutters, stepping back to asses his son with a long, studious gaze, taking in the dark circles colored under his eyes, his slumped posture, and his almost sunken face. “Have you been sleeping?”
TK makes to answer, to reassure his dad that he’s completely fine, but Owen continues, not letting him sneak a word in.
“I know it can be hard to shut your mind off, especially after learning about all of this.” He gestures weakly toward himself. “But, we can tell your therapist--”
“Dad,” TK groans, turning toward the door. “I said I’m fine.” ‘I’m not the one with cancer’ is what he wants to follow with, but the mere thought stabs at his chest like a dagger that’s on fire, so, instead, he looks over his shoulder, smiling softly. “Stop worrying about me and go get more rest, old man.”
The smile grows wide and genuine at Owen’s mock dismay, the latter even going so far as to slap a hand to his chest. “Tyler Kennedy Strand, you take that back right this second!”
“The number doesn’t lie,” TK laughs out, running when Owen shoots after him, and he takes the light punches to his back, stopping only when Owen turns away to cough harshly. Tension flicks across TK’s muscles, and he spins around, frowning. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Owen breathes out, catching his breath. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re going to wrinkle.”
“You are unbelievable,” TK spits out around a huff of a laugh as he turns to leave the room, calling out his goodnight as he shuffles back into his room. It’s almost 3:30 now, and his alarm is set for 6. His muscles are aching for his bed, but his heart’s been the only one allowed to make decisions as of late. He bypasses his bed and slips his sneakers on, waiting until he hears Owen’s soft snores before he slips out of the house for a run.
*****
“Not to be an asshole or anything, but you look like shit.”
TK’s hand freezes mid rub at his helmet, and he drags a narrow gaze up to Judd. “Good morning to you, too.” He frowns a little, the crack in his voice betraying him, and he pulls his gaze back to his helmet, ignoring Judd when the latter takes a seat beside him.
“TK, man, what’s going on? You’ve been looking like a zombie for a week now, and you’re starting to sound like one, too.”
“I’m fine,” TK grumbles, but the few coughs that slip past his pursed lips say otherwise, and he can see Judd tense slightly beside him through his peripherals.
“It’s your dad, isn’t it?” Judd leans toward TK, keeping his voice low, and TK twists his gaze over until he’s meeting Judd’s surprisingly soft eyes. The look alone has his shoulders slumping, and he sighs lowly.
“It’s just a lot to take in, and I’m trying to do better.” If he’s not dissecting each google page or medical book, he’s catering to his dad’s every need, cooking for him, supporting him as much as possible while out on the line, and being at his side through the nightly coughing fits and bouts of nausea. “I’m trying to take care of him,” he adds, voice almost a whisper, and Judd claps a hand to his shoulder.
“You aren’t going to be any good to him if you drive yourself into the ground. You need a little break.”
“I can’t--”
“--sorry to interrupt this little pow-wow, boys,” Owen cuts in, talking loud enough to gather the attention of his entire team. “But I’ve just received an invitation to the bar tonight, so make sure you bring your dancing shoes!”
TK doesn’t miss the way Michelle stops to roll her eyes before she hoists herself up into the back of an ambulance, but then his dad’s talking directly to him, voice carrying over the hollers from the others.
“You’ll come, right?” He leans forward, whispering. “Michelle said Carlos will be there--”
“--Dad!” TK hisses out sharply, and the heat that creeps to his cheeks is evident, enough so to have Judd bellowing out a laugh beside him.
*****
TK excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving his mineral water with Carlos as he maneuvers around bar-goers until he’s shoving the bathroom door open just as his lungs burst. He buries his face into the crook of his arm, coughing harshly. He’s been getting worse as the day’s dragged on, and it’s been getting harder to keep it to himself. He started spiking a low-grade fever toward the end of his shift, and if the chill clinging to him is anything to go by, he’d say it’s definitely spiking.
He feels like shit, point blank utter shit. His muscles are aching, but not like they do after a particularly hard shift. They’re almost throbbing, feeling oddly restless, and his head’s pounding, behind his eyes, across his forehead, all the way to drum at his temples. Worse, though, he can’t seem to shut his mind off, not even with Carlos and his unfair muscles by his side.
He takes just a few moments to splash cold water over his burning face, sniffling lightly when he dries his face, and then he leaves, coughing weakly into his fist as he moves back around drunks and dancing until he’s bumping Carlos’ shoulder.
“Your dad just yee-hawed half the people off the dance floor,” Carlos shouts over the music, and TK shoots a gaze to see his dad moving through some weirdly graceful mock lasso toss.
“Marjan got the entire thing on video,” Carlos adds, nodding across the room, and TK follows his gaze with a half-hearted laugh.
“Hey,” Carlos’ voice is softer this time, almost gentle, and TK pulls his eyes to his, frowning slightly as he tilts his head.
“Do you want to get out of here?” He leans in close to TK’s ear, and TK shudders against his hot breath.
“I don’t know about you, but this place is kind of blowing my vibe, and my couch is really lonely--”
A quick distraction that TK smiles at, lips curling up almost deviously, and he nods quickly, allowing Carlos to pull him toward the exit. He spares a glance over his shoulder, fear suddenly gripping at his heart, but then he sees Michelle laughing as Owen spins her around the dance floor. It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s with the EMT Captain.
He doesn’t mean to catch Judd’s eyes, but he does, and Judd nods once, an almost silent reassurance that TK clings to as Carlos all but drags him out of the bar.
*****
TK’s melting against Carlos’ forceful touch, his body moving in sync with Carlos’ smooth movements. Their lips are molding to each other, their tongues battling, and when Carlos pulls away, dragging his bottom lip with him in a gentle bite for just a moment, he groans, back arching when Carlos drags sharp kisses down his neck. He’s almost lost completely to Carlos, but then Carlos is mumbling against his neck.
“God, you’re on fire.” He nips at TK’s neck, almost drinking in the heat pouring off of him, and TK huffs around a small shiver, still feeling oddly cold despite being swallowed by the heat of Carlos’ muscles.
“Weird,” he grunts, a light moan slipping past his lips when Carlos’ hand trails down his stomach. “I’m actually freezing.” It’s a small slip-up, lost briefly in a moment of pure honesty, and then Carlos is pulling away quickly, a frown plastered to his lips.
He’s hovering just above TK, hands pressed to the couch beside TK’s head, and his eyes are working over TK’s face. “You’re cold?”
TK doesn’t really see the big deal because it’s probably just cold in Carlos’ apartment with the AC purring quietly in the background, so he nods, and then Carlos is rolling off of him and starting out of the room.
“Carlos, what the fuck?” He shouts, his throat burning with each word until he turns to cough into the crook of his arm harshly. When he catches his breath, he turns his gaze to see Carlos walking toward him with a digital thermometer in his hand.
“Doctor kink?” he starts, both brows raised, “I mean, if that’s your thing, I can get behind that--”
“TK, shut the fuck up and put this under your tongue.”
TK opens his mouth to argue, but Carlos shoves the tip of the thermometer into his mouth, and he can’t do anything but oblige, slipping it under his tongue as he keeps a steady gaze to Carlos’ almost angry one. When the thermometer beeps, he moves to grab it, but Carlos is faster by a long shot, more so against TK’s sore muscles, and he frowns at the 102.2 degree reading, dropping it to TK’s hand as he presses a palm to TK’s forehead.
“Woah,” TK breathes out at the reading, frowning deeply. He knew he had been running a low-grade, but this is way higher than he expected. “Shit,” he curses, eyes flying from the device to Carlos. “I’m sorry,” he spits out, but then his lungs quake with a need to cough, and he turns away from Carlos, coughing harshly into the crook of his arm.
When he can suck in a deep breath without the burning need to cough more, he spares a hesitant glance back to see pure, dripping worry coloring Carlos’ eyes.
“In the SUV earlier,” Carlos mutters, almost more to himself, “when you were coughing and said you accidentally inhaled some smoke on a call earlier. I should have known then.” He reaches over TK’s shoulder for a blanket folded on the back of his couch and drapes it over TK’s slightly trembling shoulders, and TK watches his every move.
“Why didn’t you say earlier? I wouldn’t have pushed you--”
“--I wanted the distraction,” TK admits, surprising even himself. With the gig up, with Carlos staring at him with such consuming worry, he sinks back against the couch, allowing his illness to fully sweep over his body. He shivers, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and he tilts his head against the back of the couch, eyes finding the ceiling.
“A distraction from what?” Carlos pushes gently, careful to not tiptoe over into boyfriend territory.
“Everything,” TK mutters around a weak cough, and he rolls his head to the side when Carlos lays a gentle hand to his covered knee, a small sign of encouragement that he’s listening but not forcing.
“If I say I’m not ready to talk about it right now, will you not ask about it?”
Carlos considers this, and while the urge to push past TK’s wall is as hot as the latter’s fever, he nods slowly. “You can stay the night,” he says instead, moving with the need to see TK through what he’s sure is either a really bad cold or maybe the flu.
“I can’t,” TK starts, and he pushes the blanket away, making to stand, but his vision wavers, gray dots dancing across his eyes, and Carlos is quick on his feet, snaking a strong arm around TK’s waist and guiding him back down to the couch.
“Why not? You can’t even walk.”
“My dad,” TK mutters, leaning heavily against Carlos. “I need to be with him... He needs someone with him to make sure he’s okay.” The panic from before, from leaving his father alone, hits him like a bucket of ice water being tossed over his head, and he’s shaking hard in Carlos’ grip, both from fever and fear, but Carlos’ only tightens his hold, a beacon of steady warmth he’s almost afraid to get too close to.
Carlos really wants to ask about this because Owen seems fine, but the desperation clinging to TK’s tone has him considering his words. “I can call Michelle--”
“--no,” TK mutters, coughing against Carlos’ shoulder. “Judd. He’s the only other one who knows.”
Carlos eases TK back against the couch, worry pulling at his heart as TK coughs and shivers and curls in on himself. “I’ll call Judd,” he starts, gaze drifting to the door for a moment. “Promise you won’t run?”
“Couldn’t even if I tried,” TK chatters out, teeth clacking together, and Carlos makes quick work of calling Judd, rattling off what he knows.
Judd’s worry on the other line of the phone apparently stretches back to a few days prior, and when he mentions he’s not sure that TK’s been sleeping, a pit grows in Carlos’ stomach, uncomfortable against the heavy weight of concern.
Their conversation isn’t long, ending when Judd reassures him that he’ll keep an eye on Owen and will even make an excuse for TK’s absence. After, Carlos makes quick work of guiding TK to his bedroom. TK’s frighteningly compliant, only fighting him when he tries to pull an “Austin Police Department” hoodie over his head, snagging it from the back of a chair in his bedroom.
“You’ll overheat,” Carlos tries, but TK somehow manages to pull the hoodie over his bare torso, and Carlos can’t say no when TK looks at him, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up at different ends, the sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his shaking hands, and the hem just covering a small part of TK’s bare thighs.
“Fine,” he mutters, breathing through a few curses as he helps TK into bed. He turns to get medicine for the fever, but TK’s hand is suddenly latching onto his wrist, surprisingly strong, and when he turns around, TK’s eyes, though glassy, are bright and aware.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just going to get some medicine--”
“--I can’t sleep,” TK admits, fingers digging into Carlos wrists as he coughs harshly. “I haven’t slept in a week.”
“Jesus, TK,” Carlos breathes out. He’s getting more and more pieces of the puzzle that is Tyler Kennedy Strand, but the borders, the ones that support the picture, are still missing, as well as some middle chunks. “Why--”
“--you said you wouldn’t ask.”
“Sorry,” Carlos mutters. “I’m just going to get medicine, and then I’ll come right back.” TK’s hand drops to the bed, eyes momentarily flicking to a color of fear that has Carlos rushing to the bathroom for ibuprofen and water.
TK takes the medicine without question, wanting to rid his body of this shitty feeling just as much as Carlos does, and then Carlos slips some pants on and climbs into the bed, resting his back against the headboard, and TK watches him, eyes impossibly tired.
“Do you think you can try to sleep? I’ll stay awake if you need me.”
“Judd’s with my dad?” TK asks, and when Carlos nods, he nods back, curling around Carlos’ hips, head resting against his thigh. He’s a little afraid to let his eyes slip closed, aware that he won’t have the control to not slip into REM, but when Carlos drops a careful hand to his hair, fingers carding softly through it, the fear eases a little, and he hums softly.
“Is this okay? Have I gone too far into boyfriend territory?”
“You have,” TK mutters around a yawn that’s followed by a few weak coughs. “But it’s okay for tonight.”
prompt: Could I request another sick T.K. but pushing through the illness during work and maybe passing out? 🥰 your writing is incredible and I always check your page when I log in 😊😊
Carlos had been sick, picking up a small cold from another officer, but TK had insisted at the time that he didn’t care and still wanted to sleep with him, banking on a relatively strong immune system to keep the virus at bay; however, perhaps his immune system’s been compromised due to previous drug intake because he wakes for his shift two days after sleeping with Carlos to a throat that burns with each swallow and a headache that thumps softly against his temples.
He’s hot. His blankets feel smoldering and heavy against his skin, and he kicks them off with a groan that brings with it a few dry coughs. He brings a fist to his mouth, coughing into it as he swings his legs over the bed and slides to his feet. The quick motion blurs his vision, and he brings one hand to his head, the headache pushing to a steady pounding now.
“Shit,” he mutters around a few, lingering coughs. He tugs at his shirt collar, hoping to bring some cool air to his heated skin, and stumbles to his bathroom, sluggishly opening his medicine cabinet and reaching around until his hand finds the Ibuprofen bottle. Snagging it, he moves to close his mirror, stopping when his hand brushes against a digital thermometer.
Carlos never had a fever; he didn’t even really have a cough. He was congested, a little more tired than usual, nose irritated and red-rimmed from sneezing, but that was it. TK ghosts his fingers right above the thermometer, and he almost forgoes it entirely, but as if to push him, a wave of heat washes over him, burning at his face, his cheeks, and he snags it with a sigh, turning it on and popping it under his tongue as he opens the Ibuprofen and shakes out a few pills.
The thermometer doesn’t take long to beep quietly, and he plucks it from his lips, frown pulling at the corners of his lips as his eyes stare hard at the 101.2 degree reading. He puts it away, opting to keep this to himself, and pops a few pills into his mouth, washing them down with water cupped in his palm. The pills grate against his sore throat, and he winces as he strips and steps into his shower, putting the water on a cooler temperature to chase away the heat.
The cool stream washes over his heated skin, and he presses one arm to the bathroom wall and drops his forehead against his arm, eyes fluttering closed as he goes still, only letting the shower break the heat. He zones out, almost nodding off, feeling far too fatigued after a full night’s sleep, and he only comes to when the water goes from a pleasant cool to a piercing cold that has him jerking awake with a trembling gasp. His hands shake as he quickly moves through familiar motions of washing himself, and he’s stumbling out of the shower four minutes later, shivering hard, teeth chattering, as he grabs a towel and pulls it around himself.
Drying himself is hard. His limbs have succumbed to a chill that he can’t wipe away with a towel, yet his face still feels oddly hot, and he knows it’s the fever. His reflection when he walks by the mirror is pale, worn, yet his cheeks are colored a deep red, and he presses the back of his hand to his cheek, feeling the heat warm his cold hand.
It’s fine, he tells himself. He just has to wait for the medicine to kick in, and then he will be fine. He’s not in a job position where he can call out from a cold, not when there are so many lives on the line daily. He slips into sweats and pulls a soft, yellow hoodie over his head, slipping into a pair of sneakers before snagging his bag as he starts out of the room.
His dad’s cooking. He can smell omelettes the second he steps into the hall, and his stomach churns at the strong whiffs of eggs and peppers. Swallowing thickly, he takes a moment to compose himself because he has to, and then he steps into the kitchen just as Owen’s plating an omelette.
“Good morning, TK!” Owen sings, voice rising and falling in a made up melody, and TK opens his mouth to reply, but then a tickle hits his nose, and he, instead, turns away to sneeze sharply three times into the crook of his arm, groaning around a light sniffle when he brings his eyes back to Owen.
“Maybe not such a good morning?” Owen asks, eyes hyper-focused on the flush clinging to TK’s cheeks, standing out against too pale skin, and on the soft tremors that TK tries to hid by crossing his arms. “You look terrible.”
“Wow,” TK drags out, wincing at the pain in his throat and the congestion thick in his voice, “thanks, dad.” He moves to slip past Owen to the fridge, forced to maneuver around Owen’s outstretched hand reaching toward his face.
“TK,” Owen starts, concern etched across his forehead. “Your flushed. You look like you’re running a fever.”
TK’s been expecting this ever since he caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and despite his pounding head muddling his thoughts, he’s worked through three possible conversations that will come from his current appearance, and he shrugs, opting for the nonchalant route as he grabs his reusable water bottle from the fridge, having left it in there to chill overnight.
“I just got out of the shower.”
“I know,” Owen says, and TK freezes, not expecting that response. He spins around slowly, frown painted across his lips, and he tilts his head in silent question.
“Your hair’s suffering,” Owen mutters, motioning toward his own hair. “You haven’t styled it. You always style it.”
“I woke up late.”
“No, you didn’t. Your alarm went off at the same time it always does.”
Rolling his eyes, TK turns back around, filling his bottle up with water. “Creepy much?” He asks, going for a joke, but Owen doesn’t take to it, only sighing behind TK.
“I’m fine,” TK mutters, coughing lightly as he turns back to face his dad. “Carlos had a cold, and I guess I caught it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing as if trying to will his headache away.
“You should take your temperature,” Owen starts, turning to leave the room, but TK stops him, calling to him around a few more coughs.
“Dad, stop. I already did, and I’m fine,” he mutters out the lie, sniffling lightly. “I have a headache that I’ve already taken medicine for. I’m just waiting for it to kick in.”
“You should take off today.”
“And risk the entire team calling out favoritism because the captain’s son gets to stay home with a small cold? No thanks.” TK snags his keys from the key dish on the counter.
“It’s not favoritism,” Owen says sharply, yet the frown pulled at his lips contradicts his tone. “I would let anyone take a sick day if they’re feeling unwell. Your health and safety is always my top priority.”
“When are you going to make it yours?” TK asks under his breath, and he’s forced to look away at the pained look Owen shoots him, bringing his eyes to his feet.
“TK--”
“--it’s fine,” TK says, sighing. He brings his gaze back to his dad’s. “I’m fine. I’ll see you at the station.”
*****
After hours of his team picking at him, for his hair being “too floppy,” to his voice sounding “dumb,” as Probie so nicely put it, to the light-hearted, disgusted shouts every time he coughs or sneezes, TK’s silently thankful to be on their last call, a head-on collision on a remote back road.
He feels considerably worse. Though he’s been taking medicine every four hours, the Ibuprofen is doing nothing to touch his headache, and he’s been alternating from hot to cold all day, a clear indication that the medicine hasn’t even come close to touching the fever he’s been running. His voice is rough from coughing, weak, cracking, almost gone entirely, and his jacket pockets are stuffed with tissues.
He feels miserable, and he takes a moment to cough harshly into his fist, hunching in on himself, as the others hop out of the truck and start toward the scene, with only Judd lingering behind.
“That doesn’t sound good, TK.”
“I’m fine.” TK snaps, but he doesn’t mean to. He’s been the center of his father’s concerned gaze all day, and frankly, it’s aggravating him to no end. Five different times his dad’s managed to snag him aside and question how he’s feeling, try to feel for a fever, just general doting that he doesn’t want.
“Being sick sure does make you cranky,” Judd grumbles, and TK sighs shakily, groaning low in his throat when fever chills replace the previous heat that’s been mercilessly clinging to his bones. He hops out of the truck, crossing his arms, and he shoots Judd an apologetic look before slipping his helmet on.
“Sorry,” he offers, turning away to sneeze sharply into the crook of his arm. “Cap’s been hounding me all day about this, and I just want to work in peace.” He brings his face back toward Judd, reflexes too slow to dodge the hand that sneaks past his helmet’s visor to feel at his forehead.
“He’s hounding you with good reason,” Judd grumbles, bringing his hand back with a frown. “You’re on fire.”
“I’m fine,” TK pushes, and Judd opens his mouth to retort, but then there’s a lot of shouting, and they whip around to see Owen calling out orders.
“Get the jaws of life! We’ve got someone not breathing trapped in there!”
TK falls into quick motion, moving along Owen’s orders, doing what he can to assist his team, to free those trapped in both cars. For a moment, he forgets everything, his headache, his fever, the heat pouring off his face, but then, when he turns to grab a neck brace for Michelle, the heat from his face washes over his entire body, different from before, different from the heat of a fever. It’s engulfing, and it blurs his vision. He stumbles to a stop, blinking rapidly to try and clear his eyesight.
It’s not working, and he can feel his chest constricting against the panic that slams at him. His ears begin to ring, the heat begins to grow far too unbearable, and the next time he blinks, his vision is gray, and then he blinks again and everything goes dark.
*****
“-K?”
TK starts to come to slowly, struggling against the heavy weight of a headache pushing against this temples, down his neck, to his shoulders. He feels like lead, and he can feel someone shaking his shoulder, touching his neck, his forehead.
“”Tyler Kennedy Strand, open your eyes right now!”
There are two people in Texas who know TK’s full name, and that booming, worried tone is not Carlos. TK’s eyes snap open, and Owen’s face mixes with relief and concern.
“There you are,” Owen mutters, hand sliding down TK’s cheek, worry etched across his forehead. “You’re burning up.”
TK moves to push past Owen, memories flooding back slowly. His body’s shaking, but he pushes up into a sitting position, looking over Owen’s shoulder toward the car. “The girl,” he mutters, lungs bursting and bringing forth thick, heavy coughs. “Is she--”
“--she’s fine,” Owen says, hand clamped to TK’s shoulder to keep him upright. “You, on the other hand, are not.”
“What happened?” TK asks, eyes frantic, darting between those surrounding him, falling to Carlos, who’s sporting an unreadable expression.
“You fainted,” Owen answers, but when TK moves to stand, he tightens his grip. “Woah, TK, easy. You should get checked by Michelle first.”
“I’m--”
“--if you say you’re fine one more time,” Owen snaps, and TK goes still, flopping back against the grass, draping an arm over his head. He starts shaking when the chills pick back up, and he remains lying on the ground, tuning out the voices over him as he’s looked over by the EMTs.
*****
TK fell asleep as soon as Owen brought him home and urged him to take the flu medication they picked up on their way back, and he sleeps for hours, only coming to to quiet voices from the living room. Opening his eyes is hard, swallowing around the dryness painted in his throat is harder. He coughs, pushing up into a sitting position as rough coughs jerk against his lungs. He slips out of the bed, bringing his blanket with him, wrapping it over his shoulders, and he stumbles out of his room, dizzy yet curious.
He makes it to the living room, shivering, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from clacking together, and he drops against the door frame, arching one brow at his dad and Carlos chatting on the couch.
“What is this?” He asks, turning to cough into his blanket, and Carlos starts toward him, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Your bed head is cute.”
“Stop,” TK whines, moving to pull the blanket over the back of his head. “Why are you here?” He looks past Carlos to Owen. “It’s 2 AM.”
“Carlos wanted to stop by and check on you,” Owen answers, moving out of the living room to his own room. “I’ll leave you two alone. Not too late, Carlos. He needs rest.”
“Dad,” TK drags out, coughing weakly, and Carlos nods and bids Owen a good night.
“Why are you up?”
“The sound of my fuck buddy and my father talking is bound to wake me up,” TK grumbles, and Carlos laughs quietly and brushes the back of his hand to TK’s forehead.
“You feel warmer than before,” Carlos frowns, and TK sags against him, dropping his head to Carlos’ shoulder.
“I feel like shit,” he grumbles, sighing softly when Carlos’ arms wrap around him. “How did you get a small cold and I got the fucking flu?”
“Remember when you said you were too busy to get your flu shot?”
“Fuck off,” TK spits out weakly, and Carlos’ laughing vibrates against him, warm and comfortable, and he moves easily as Carlos guides him back to his bedroom. “Are you going to stay?” he asks, climbing back into his bed, and Carlos arches a brow.
“I was going to ask if that was okay.”
“You’re already BFFs with my dad,” TK mutters, sleeping pulling at him sharply. “You might as well now.”
