Soap’s flat smells like gun oil, neach (because he insists it’s “medicinal”), and the faint sour tang of a fever that’s been creeping up on him for two days. He’s sprawled across the couch in nothing but low-slung joggers, one arm flung over his eyes, the other lazily scratching at the dark hair arrowing down his abs. The thermostat reads 22 °C, but he’s shivering like it’s Helmand in January.
You push the door shut with your hip, takeaway soup in one hand, paracetamol in the other. “Thought the big bad sergeant could fight off a wee cold, eh?” He cracks one eye open, glassy and unfairly blue even when bloodshot. “Ach, I’m no’ sick,” he croaks, voice like gravel dragged over sandpaper. “Just… strategically under the weather.” Then he grins, crooked and filthy. “Besides, nurse, I’ve been waitin’ all day for you to come take my temperature. Preferably with your mouth.” You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out.
“Drink your soup, MacTavish.”
He pushes up on an elbow, joggers slipping another dangerous inch, and the movement makes the muscles in his stomach flex. Fever’s turned his cheeks red, damp hair sticking to his forehead, and he looks like sin that’s been dragged through a rainstorm. “Only if ye feed me,” he says, low and teasing. “I’m too weak, bonnie. Might spill it all down my chest… terrible waste. Unless you’re offerin’ to lick it up.” Christ. Even half-dead he’s lethal. You sit on the edge of the couch. He immediately drops his head into your lap like a dog claiming territory, nuzzling into your thigh with a content rumble that turns into a coughing fit. When it passes he’s panting, but the bastard still finds the energy to drag his stubble along the inside of your knee.
“Johnny, you’re delirious.”
“Aye,” he sighs, lips brushing bare skin, “delirious for you.” His hand slides up your calf, calloused thumb tracing idle circles. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. These joggers? Fuckin’ torture. Can feel every heartbeat in my—”
“Soup,” you say firmly, because if you let him keep going you’re going to climb him like a tree and he’ll end up in hospital with pneumonia.
He pouts—actually pouts—but opens his mouth obediently when you lift the spoon. Three mouthfuls in, his eyes start drifting shut. The flirty smirk softens into something stupidly sweet.
“Yer awful pretty when yer tryin’ to mother me,” he mumbles, words slurring together. His hand, still on your leg, goes slack, fingers curled loosely around the back of your knee like he’s anchoring himself to you even in sleep.
You set the bowl aside. “Thought you were dying for me to take advantage of you.”
“Still am,” he whispers, already half-gone. “Jus’… five minutes. Wake me up with your tongue and I’ll make it worth your while, swear on my—fuckin’—“
His head gets heavier in your lap, breath evening out into soft, congested snores. The hand that was promising filth five seconds ago is now just… holding you, gentle and trusting.
You card your fingers through his sweaty mohawk and sigh. Typical Johnny MacTavish—talks a big game, flirts like it’s a contact sport, then passes out before you can even get his joggers off.
You pull the blanket over him, steal one last look at the ridiculous, beautiful man currently drooling on your jeans, and mutter, “Next time you get sick, I’m sedating you first.”
He snuffles in his sleep, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “promise?” and you know fine well he’ll hold you to it when he wakes up.
Bastard.
A/N: if you cant tell, i’m on a writers kick right now! I’m honestly not quite sure if what im writing is making sense but im trying to write something for all the Tf141 and maybe some Kortac/ghosts. I’d like to see who i prefer to write for :)