I'll do a backflip if u write more syntax x reader content
backflip
do it now
i got an idea for this one so i'll answer it first CONSIDERING we're at the tail end of thanksgiving break. Also i am sick too and its easier to write about things that derive from personal experience. HAPPY LATE THANKSGIVING BTW (to those who celebrate ig)
anyways, pretty long 3k oneshot, pretty fluffy, enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SYNTAX X READER
Lego Monkie Kid
Context: You wake up with a fever and Syntax feels obliged to take care of you, despite you being a very disagreeable sick baby. Curse him and his affection for you.
TW: Language, mentions of sick
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
He thought you'd gone to work.
Well, he never checked to see if you'd left or not.
To be fair, Syntax never ventures into your sleeping chambers very often, if only to retrieve or return a book that caught his interest. Respect is high on his list of values.
The spider demon has your work schedule practically memorized by now, so he's content with the knowledge that you left at precisely 8:30 a.m. to be at work by 9:00. However, he does find it a little disheartening to find that you'd neglected to leave a note for him. You rarely do this, but it lights a warm fire in his soul whenever you do (don't ask why, Syntax is the worst at figuring out his own emotions).
Currently, he's on the couch reading a psychology textbook you forgot to return back in your college run.
Amusement tugs Syntax's lips upwards.
Yes, he knows the book was rented. Upon taking a quick peek at your e-mail inbox, he discovered a number of warnings to return the damn thing before your account was charged.
But Syntax found no record of your account in the logs.
He reminds himself to ask you about that later, but it's probably due to you graduating and someone deleting your account to save room. The requests died off a few months ago as the store decided to give up, anyways (he ignores the streak of guilt at his snooping. It's for your own good).
Ah-heh. . . .
There's a lot of things he does 'for your own good'. Things you probably wouldn't file into the same category, unfortunately.
Lazily shifting around to look at the clock, Syntax frowns and tries to decide when is the safest time to visit his Queen's old lair. Sure it's destroyed, but he's found plenty of useful equipment to fuel his creations, which are currently scattered on the coffee table.
RING RING RING-
Green eyes flicking wide open at the sudden intrusive blaring, Syntax jumps to his feet and whips around.
There, in the kitchen, is your phone.
Your phone??
It continues to ring incessantly, making Syntax's lip curl with discomfort. Muttering to himself, he marks his page in the textbook and makes his way around the couch to retrieve the phone. Curiosity and apprehension flare up at the name on the screen: 'Jasper (Work)'.
Jasper must be your manager. Syntax faintly remembers you bringing him up on occasion. A complaint at best, threats to quit at worst.
Syntax hesitates slightly before answering the call. Why did you leave your phone here?
"Hello?"
"Who's this?" Is the immediate reply, host to a deep and irritable tone of voice.
Damnit.
Syntax obviously can't introduce himself honestly. Millions of excuses and impromptu pseudonyms flood the spider demon's mind as he tries to come up with the best disguise that you might approve of (Bob? Not in a million years). His eyes slide over the textbook lying face-up on the table, sharp green eyes flitting wildly over the pages.
Eventually, Syntax decides that his conflicted (not panicked, not panicked) silence has stretched out long enough.
"Ah, apologies. This is . . . Maverick?"
Thank the stars for his quick reading skills and your willingness to let him borrow your books.
Your manager sounds surprised. "This is (Y/N)'s phone, yes?"
"Correct."
"Where are they, then?"
Panic turns to suspicion, which promptly dissolves in a pit of worry. The dots connect and Syntax feels like he already knows the answer before the words tumble out of his mouth. "What do you mean? Are they not at work?"
It's almost mid-day. You would be taking your lunch break in an hour.
Jasper sighs tiresomely. "No. I know they have a habit of turning up late on Fridays but this is just unnacceptable. What are you doing with their phone?"
"It's . . . I mean . . ."
Syntax finds himself pacing.
To speak honestly or not to speak honestly, that is the question. Should he reveal that he's living in your apartment? That you left your phone in the kitchen-
No.
Hold the cable.
You'd never forget your phone, it's your only means of transport (oh, yeah, he knows your habit of using the GPS for even the simplest of directions no matter how hard you try to hide it). So the only possible explanation for finding it still in the apartment would be because you hadn't even left in the first place.
"Can I put you on hold for just a moment?" Syntax asks, biting his lip anxiously.
Jasper sounds thoroughly confused. "Uh . . . sure."
"Much obliged."
With that, Syntax puts his speaker on mute and lowers the phone, taking wide and purposeful steps down the hallway. Your door is closed with not a sign of life noticeable through the cracks. But suddenly, the thought of finding you still in bed is more worrisome to Syntax than finding your room vacant. He can find you easily no matter where you are in the city whether you have your phone or not (he might've instilled a tracking device into that favorite piece of jewelry/clothing you always wear when going out. Once again, for your own damn good). The problem arises in discovering you haven't yet gotten out of bed to eat, drink water, or do anything productive.
Okay.
So he's been stalling for a good two minutes at your bedroom door thinking of all the worst ways to discover your body.
Something twists his gut, makes him hesitate to raise his hand for a soft knocking on your door. Unfortunately, the pressure of having your manager on the phone forces Syntax to ignore his thoughts.
"(Y/N)?" He asks, softly at first.
Well damn, there's no way you could've heard that.
He raps his knuckles on the door with a tad more impact, disliking the empty way it reverbs off the hallway. Syntax doesn't like a quiet apartment, he's much more used to (and much prefers) the life in which your fill it with. He'd never admit that aloud, though. "(Y/N), are you in there?"
Silence meets his question. It feels like a stab to the foot. A metaphorical one, but the pain is there and unrelenting.
Syntax finds himself biting his lip.
Your safety must come before his flight instincts. He needs to make sure you're okay.
". . . I'm coming in, all right?"
The doorknob is cold to the touch as Syntax twists and pushes the door gently open - slowly, so you could voice any oppositions. But none reach his ears and he's allowed to open the door all the way. It hits the wall with a soft bump.
Syntax doesn't need to look very closely to determine your likely whereabouts.
The sad lump under the bundle of blankets tells him enough.
Oh dear.
"(Y/N)?" He calls, hand gripping the door frame somewhat tightly. The room is quiet and cold, sending a chill down Syntax's spine as he observes your form.
You suddenly shift - faintly at first, but then the sound of coughing reaches the spider demon's ears.
That sounds really bad.
Rough and moist and rattling and definitely painful. It's even painful to hear.
Syntax blinks, eyes going wide with surprise. Slowly, he raise the phone again, unmutes the speaker, and holds it close to his ear. "Are you still there?"
A pause. Then; "Yeah. What's the problem?"
"(Y/N) is sick."
An even longer pause. One that allows Syntax enough time to shuffle around your bed to try and pick out any part of your body that isn't coddled by the blankets. No such luck, though, and the scientist is mildly put-off by your isolation.
You must've tried to muffle the sounds of your illness by burying yourself within the blankets.
Had your manager not called, Syntax never would've known.
The thought is . . . uncomfortable.
At that moment, Jasper finally decides to speak up. "Whaddya mean, they're sick? They should've called and told me so I can assign someone to take over their shift! Now we're falling behind!"
Irritation worms its way into Syntax stomach where it boils angrily. It doesn't seem like Jasper cares enough about your health. You'd failed to call because you left your phone in the kitchen last night. Based on how sickly you sound, there's no way you'd bother walking all that way just to call off work (come to think of it, you didn't sound too well last night, either. You hardly talked at all).
"Sir, I apologize for the inconvenience. I'll try to have them back at work within the next few days, I-"
Wait.
Shit.
Sure, Syntax may care about your health.
But how the hell is he supposed to fix you up?? He's not the nurse in the house - that's your job!
For a moment he just stares at the blankets, completely short circuiting. It goes on like this for so long that Jasper clears his throat; "You good?"
Syntax's brow furrows, anxiety making him fidget with his sleeve.
Well, he's not the only thorn in the thicket, thank goodness. Taking a deep, determined breath through his nose, the spider demon clears his throat with much pizazz and swallows his dignity. "Yes, I'm all right. But your employee is not. I was . . . wondering. Um. Do you have any reccomended diagnosis for them?"
"(Y/N) coming down with the flu is news to me, how would I know what to give them?" Your manager grunts, then his voice suddenly lifts with the air of one pointing fingers. "Maybe you should take them to see a doctor if you don't know what to do."
Hhhhh. Well, there's no way Syntax can do that. Not even as you erupt into another fit of coughing, the sound tugging at his heartstrings. Simply put, Syntax is torn.
Science is easy. It has codes and tricks and programs that literally work as free serotonin.
People, however.
They are problematic and difficult to understand.
Sick people are no different.
But of course, like the stubborn man he is, Syntax denies the option to seek external assistance. "No, no, I can handle this myself. I'm not a complete healing novice."
"Huh. Okay. . . . Have them call me back when they feel up to it," Jasper adds with a hint of stiff suspicion. Syntax knows exactly why. Having a stranger answer his employee's phone definitely raises red flags. "I want them to personally let me know when they can return to work again."
"Will do. Goodbye."
After hanging up, the spider demon spends another good minute just staring at you.
Or, well, at the blankets.
Should he wake you up? How much sleep do you need?
He runs a stiff hand through his hair, teeth gritted despite himself as he deposits your phone by the bedside table. If his calculations are correct, you haven't gotten up to get a drink of water all morning. Neither have you gotten a bite to eat. Considering it's almost 1 p.m., that gives rise to concern. Plus, the room smells funny. A nasty kind of funny.
This is what has him crouching by your bed, hands clasped above his knees. "(Y/N)?"
Nothing.
Biting his lip, he reaches forward and gently pokes where he think your shoulder is. What he feels, though, is probably your head.
Oh. You must be curled in on yourself.
Warmth and pity fight for dominance in his heart. Once again he prods you with a finger, reaffirming his belief that it's your head he's bothering. After a third attempt, you shift, and he stops.
You cough a few more times, the sound followed by a hoarse, rattling inhale of air. It's expelled slowly thereafter.
"(Y/N), are you awake?"
" . . . Hm?"
Syntax smiles slightly at the familiar sound of your voice, even though currently you sound strangled.
"Ah. There you are," the spider demon hums, resting his hand on the edge of your bed rather than on any part of you. "I'll get you a drink of water, all right?"
Silence. Syntax frowns before standing up to leave.
So you're sick. And from the sound of it, you've got it bad. What is a guy like Syntax supposed to do about that? Wrap you in bandages? Prescribe you some medicine? Take you to the doctor like a sane and smart individual? (Unlikely. He's much too prideful for that)
The one thing he can do safely and without consequence is to fetch you a cup of water, so he does just that.
When he returns, you're sitting hunched on the bed.
You're rubbing your eyes when he comes 'round with the cup in hand, and you don't even look up as he stands over you. Syntax has to clear his throat to get your attention.
"Here you go."
Gingerly, you take the cup. Syntax notices the subtle shake of your hands, which only makes his brow furrow.
He's almost about to ask you about it when suddenly, you're pointing somewhere behind him. Confusion stirs his depths, and he glances over his shoulder. "You want me to look away?"
"Tylenol," you murmur, voice raspy and quiet. "Bathroom."
Ah.
"I'll be right back," says Syntax, watching you carefully for a second before departing. There's something off about the look in your eyes. The lack of focus, maybe. Perhaps it's because you just woke up. Perhaps it's because you're really ill-
He quickly takes his leave, entering the bathroom and flicking the light on. A quick glance around and all of its secrets are coming undone. From the look of it, you've gone in here to blow your nose multiple times (the trashcan is overflowing with tissue paper); you've thrown up in the toilet (it smells god-awful in here - that's why it smelled funny); and you've attempted to treat the pain yourself (bottles of pills lie popped open by the sink). All Syntax can do is hope that your nursing instincts kicked in at the last moment and you steered clear of an overdosage.
After flushing the toilet, he peers into the other room, eyes on you. "When did you take these last?" Syntax asks, shaking the Tylenol bottle. It says every 8 hours. He just wants to make sure.
You suck on your bottom lip, dull eyes on the bedsheets.
You hold up eight fingers.
Relief washes over the spider demon, and he divvies out two pills. "All right."
With that, he heads over, pulling up a chair to sit by the bed. When he hands you the pills, you nod silently, popping them in your mouth and taking the water with it. Silence fills the room. Normally Syntax would find it uncomfortable, but right now he's trying to figure out what to make you for lunch.
Suddenly, you look away, face buried in your arm as you let out a few coughs. Then you look back, eyes slightly bloodshot from congestion and lack of air. "Thngks."
"You're supposed to be at work, you know," Syntax reminds you gently. Stars, you sound terrible.
You shift at that, sniffing wetly. "Wha . . ."
Coughs wrack your body, sending you into a fit of trembling that only panic could ensue.
Oh, you're worried about missing your shift and angering your manager? He can't have that.
"Don't worry about it," Syntax reassures, tempted to rub your knee to soothe you. "He called me ten minutes ago and I told him I'd take care of you. Just . . . call him back later and let him know when you feel better."
You nod slowly, temporarily mollified from your excitement. But then your eyes slide to the bedside table and a hand reaches out to retrieve your phone.
Syntax is faster. "Ah ah ah, I said later," he says sternly.
Your bottom lip juts out in a pout. The spider demon suddenly quite likes this docile version of you.
Maybe sick people are different.
"Time," you grunt, glaring halfheartedly at Syntax from over the glass of water. It seems as though you really are parched, which relieves the spider demon.
So he's doing something right. Good.
"One . . . ah, one twenty," Syntax answers, one leg bouncing on the ground.
You groan hoarsely. "My boss is gonna- cough! - kill me."
"Doubtful. However, you're not quite safe from my wrath," Syntax says, regarding you carefully through narrowed eyes. Like you were a rare specimen that had a bad case of annoying people. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling all right?"
"Dunno."
"Not one for words? Cat got your tongue?"
You glare again, leaning away from the spider demon who returns your look equally. "Throat hurt."
Syntax scoffs. "That's no excuse."
"I-" Whatever explanation (excuse, in Syntax's opinion) you had in mind to say is halted by you suddenly freezing up, finger suspended mid-air. Nose-wrinkled, posture stiff, you wait for the inevitable. But no sneeze comes, and Syntax can't help a smirk at how silly you look. Recovering quickly, you expel a bout of air and sniff; "I thought it was temporary."
Hmm. Your voice does sound strained. Perhaps it would be wise not to encourage you to talk.
"Fair enough," the scientist sighs, and you glance at him in surprise. But he merely locks eyes with you boredly. "Would you like something to eat?"
"Uh-"
"Just nod or shake your head."
You sit and ponder at the blankets for a good minute.
In the end, you reward the spider demon with a grudging nod. "Just- lemme get dressed."
Inclined to stand up as you throw the blankets off, Syntax pries his eyes from your features to inspect your outfit. Comfortable clothes might make it easier for you.
"You look fine."
"I look. Unprofessional," you sniff.
He waits for you to stand. But when all you do is stare at your crossed legs in mild surprise, Syntax comes to an obvious conclusion.
You're sick.
Walking should not be one of your chores.
"I . . . I can carry you," says Syntax all of the sudden, as though the idea were a brilliant discovery that should've been obvious. Flowers blossom within his chest at the thoughts summoned to mind. But his eyes are bright, fixing on your face with a determined spark.
You recoil, face scrunching up. For a moment Syntax fears the idea disgusts you but the scrunched face was only in preparation for a loud sneeze.
Your face promptly vanishes within the blankets.
He waits for you to resurface.
Heh.
In a moment, you do, thoroughly dazed but adamant about refusing Syntax's offer. "No."
The scientist is starting to smile. "I'll carry you. Why not?"
"Gotta get dressed. 'M heavy. You're nerd boy," you say, along with a raspy stream of similar retorts that eat away at Syntax's pride. Nerd boy?
All right.
Time to put his metaphorical foot down. Which hurts, since it's already been metaphorically stabbed.
"Enough. We've got no time for your shenanigans, not this time. I know you'll eat anything I cook for you and I also know you're severely unwilling to give up those clothes," says Syntax firmly, gesturing to your pajamas. You clutch them protectively, but the look in your eyes suggests a more insulted mindset. Syntax allows himself a soft, warm smile and extends his hand. The one with your phone in it.
"Let me take care of you."
Your eyes are pretty, yes, but also milky with the flu as they slide down to consider his offer.
He waits.
You suck on your lower lip with indecision, and his eyes flick down before darting back up. Then, after you let out a small sigh, two arms are extended, one taking the phone. "Fine."
"You are tired," Syntax murmurs. You merely dip your head down.
He wastes not another moment. Bending over, Syntax slips one arm under your legs and the other under your arms. You're suddenly lifted into the air, and the weightless feel of it has you clutching the front of Syntax's shirt, eyes going wide. Upon hearing your sharp intake of breath, Syntax glances down at you with a concerned frown.
"Ah . . . you're not going to be sick, are you?"
Lips pressed tightly together, you shake your head. Without a word, you let your head thump lightly against the spider demon's collarbone, but your fingers stay curled around the fistful of shirt you've collected.
Syntax allows himself to feel relieved. Vomit is not a suitable addition to his attire.
Besides, it stinks.
He adjusts his hold on you before heading out, thinking of the many possibilities for lunch. Casserole? Perhaps something easier on your stomach.
Toast.
Oh stars, toast was literally Syntax's go-to for everything before he met you.
That, and granola bars. And junk food.
He sets you on the couch carefully, head swiveling around in search of the TV remote. But when you jerk uncomfortable, a hand shooting under your leg, Syntax looks down to find you whipping the remote out from underneath you.
You're squinting at him, as though you think he'd done that on purpose. Syntax merely holds his hands up in surrender.
"I didn't."
Shrugging in response, you turn the TV on.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. You seem content to keep quiet. "I'll make you some toast, yes?"
Another shrug.
"Is there something wrong?"
His eyes snap south to find you holding up a finger. Your face is scrunched up yet again, and Syntax can do absolutely nothing to stop the smile that spawns on his features as your head is thrown forwards in another sneeze.
He chuckles, materializing a hankie. Well, not really. His pocket.
"Here. That was a big one, wasn't it?"
You give him the evil eye, snatching the handkerchief. "'M not talking to you."
"You just did."
"Starting now, asshole."
"Stars, (Y/N), you're sick. Can't you spare the effort to add insults?" Syntax asks exasperatedly, taking the hankie back after you blow. Ergh . . . he'll have to wash that.
You merely glare at him and jut a thumb to the kitchen. "Toast."
Eyes narrowing, Syntax meets your gaze. Perhaps he should just blame the flu and not subject you to anything.
"F i n e."
And to think he felt bad for you.
No, no, this is going to be a nightmare. Maybe.