Chapter Text
All Logan wants is to go upstairs, curl into bed, and fall asleep until Garrett physically forces him up the next morning to go to the clinic. At the moment that’s pretty close to his version of a perfect world.
Unfortunately, because the universe seems to hate him today, none of it is that easy.
It takes him longer than he cares to admit to actually make his way upstairs, and by the top he’s shaky and winded to the point of having to lean against the wall and catch his breath. Cursing to himself, Logan wonders once more if maybe this really is the plague.
A second harsh sneeze rings out from Tucker’s room, and Logan hovers by the door, torn between his innate desire to go see if his friend needs anything, or to let them both get some rest and check in tomorrow.
His own body ultimately makes the decision, knees buckling from the sheer amount of effort it’s taking him just to stay upright, so Logan quite literally stumbles down the hall and into his room, not even bothering to make sure his door is closed behind him.
As exhausted as he is though, sleep doesn’t come easily. The meds have done fuck all for his fever, so he’s swinging wildly between sweating profusely and being so cold that even being bundled up in all his blankets isn’t making a difference. As soft as his pajamas and bedding both are, his temperature is making him so uncomfortable that Logan could cry every time they touch his skin.
Just when he thinks he might be able to drift off, he’s jolted back into consciousness by yet another sneeze from across the hall, immediately followed by two more. Fuck. Tucker going to bed early was one thing. The first two sneezes could be overlooked. Even Garrett’s admission that he didn’t think the younger man was feeling well wasn’t solid proof. Now however, it was irrefutable. Whatever Logan has come down with, Tucker is clearly trying to fight off too.
Despite it being the reason he’s wide awake again, Logan finds he’s not frustrated at all. He feels like complete shit, and if Tuck is even a fraction as bad as he is, all Logan feels is bad for the guy.
Rolling over, groping blindly for his phone on his bedside table, Logan manages to get himself at least semi upright. The light of the screen sends a burning sensation he’s become all too familiar with tonight surging through his sinuses, and now it’s his turn to pitch forward with a wet sneeze.
Jesus, he’s a mess.
Using his bedsheets to wipe the moisture from his phone, Logan makes a mental note to do laundry as soon as his body decides to allow him to stay upright longer than a few minutes at a time.
It takes him a moment to make his vision stop swimming, but eventually he does find the text thread he’s looking for, and shoots off a message.
Bless you. Dean bought cold shit. It’s downstairs if you want some.
It takes a moment, but eventually his phone lights up with a response.
👍🏽
It’s an uncharacteristically short reply from Tuck, but Logan hears the bedroom door creak open and his roommate begin lumbering down the hall, so he takes that as a win, tosses his phone back onto the mattress, and closes his eyes.
—
Sleep must hate him, Logan thinks. He’s tossed and turned for what feels like hours now, rewarded only with maybe forty five minutes of actual rest before he’s woken up with his harshest coughing fit yet.
If he thought what happened earlier with Garrett was bad, it pales in comparison to this. Barking coughs tear through him with such ferocity that Logan can’t even manage to sit up, and the phlegm in his lungs makes him feel like he might actually drown.
That, coupled with the realization that he really can’t breathe very well causes a surge of panic to course through his body, which in turn causes this desperate coughing jag to worsen even more.
“Jesus Christ, Logan.”
It sounds like Garrett, but at almost midnight Garrett should be in his own room across the hall, Logan thinks.
His overhead lights flick on, and through the tears that are blurring his vision, Logan realizes it really is Garrett. Curling into a ball as more coughs shake his entire frame, he’s hopeful. Maybe he won’t drown in his own mucus.
Garrett crosses the room in two steps, and with surprising gentleness pulls Logan into a sitting position, propping him up against pillows and his headboard. It takes a bit, but eventually the coughing slows, leaving rattly wheezing in its place.
“You fucking scared me, man.”
There’s a wobble in Garrett’s voice that is so unlike him, it makes Logan feel a tiny bit guilty. “Scared myself,” he admits.
They sit silently for a moment, Logan leaning ever so slightly against his friend, far too sick to feel any sort of embarrassment over it at this point. Eventually he finds his voice again, asking “did Tuck take something?”
“I just found you coughing so hard you couldn’t breathe, and that’s what you wanna talk about?”
“He sounded like crap.”
Garrett’s face sours as he gives Logan a once over. “You sound like crap. But yeah, he came down and took some cold and sinus stuff.”
Still slightly breathless, Logan rasps “is he okay?”
“Dude you are not the one who should be asking that. He’s fine, at least right now it’s all in his head.”
Good, Logan thinks. That’s good.
His eyelids are starting to feel heavy, and Garrett must notice because he pulls the covers back over Logan’s lap. “Sleep. God knows you need it.”
“You too. ‘M sorry you had to check on me.”
He’s still putting most of his weight on Garrett, which isn’t really conducive to his friend going back to his own room. He shuffles, trying to straighten up, but Garrett just snorts a laugh. “Don’t bother. I’m staying.”
“Wha-“
“Fucking hell, Logan. I’m not leaving you alone after that.”
It should piss Logan off. He’s an adult, he can sure as shit sleep in his own bed when he’s not feeling well. He’d told Jules earlier he didn’t need someone watching him sleep.
At this point though, he’s far too sick, far too exhausted to even attempt to fight it. His throat burns, his chest is tight, his nose is permanently runny. So closing his eyes, Logan nods. “Okay.”
—-
It’s the best sleep Logan gets all night, which isn’t saying much. He stumbles in and out of consciousness, vaguely hearing hushed whispers between Garrett and Dean when the blond finally gets home around 2am. He opens his eyes a few times, peering blearily at the clock, or Garrett’s broad figure still sitting awake beside him. A coughing jag threatens to steal the air from his lungs again, but this time G is quick with pats on the back and a water bottle, and soon Logan finds sleep takes him over again.
7:30 comes painfully early, Garrett shaking him awake. “Logan, c’mon man. Wake up.”
He actually groans, “I was finally sleeping, asshole.”
Garrett takes it in stride, tossing a fresh pair of sweat pants and a hoodie onto the bed. “You can sleep once a doctor convinces me you’re not actively dying. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
—
The whole house is up when Logan finally makes it down to the living room, collapsing on the couch with a wheeze.
Tucker is beside him, sporting plaid pajama pants and a Texas sweatshirt, tissue box in his lap and Logan gives him a once over. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
“How ab I feeling?”
“Tuck’s fine,” Dean assures him as he pats his back, “you on the other hand scared the shit out of Graham last night.”
No part of Logan can refute that, so he swallows hard and nods. “I know. We’re heading to the clinic.”
“Damn right we are,” Garrett says as he emerges with car keys in hand. “Tuck, try to get some more sleep. You sound awful too. Dean-“
“Disinfect this place. I gotchu, bro.”
Apparently Garrett’s captaincy doesn’t stop when they get off the ice, because he nods. “Perfect. Logan, let’s go.”
—-
If he felt better, Logan would probably be embarrassed at how much work it is just for him to make his way out to the jeep, ride to the clinic, and walk inside. Luckily, he’s past the point of caring.
Flopping down in the waiting room chair, his voice is almost non existent as he mutters to Garrett, “can you fill out my paperwork? You know all my shit anyway.”
A flash of alarm crosses Garrett’s face, but he nods. “Yeah, of course bud.”
Logan isn’t sure if they sit there for twenty minutes or two hours. All he knows is that he’s pretty sure his fever is up again, because his teeth are starting to chatter, and everything feels a bit too fuzzy to be normal. Garrett keeps patting his knee awkwardly, telling him it won’t be much longer, and Logan isn’t sure which of them is more relieved when the matronly nurse calls, “John Logan?”
In a moment of weakness he knows they’ll both deny later, Logan shoots Garrett a silently pleading look, and his friend frowns. “You want me to come?”
Nodding, Logan stumbles to his feet, eternally grateful that Garrett rises with him, because it’s the only thing that keeps him from falling on his face.
Fuck.
—
Logan’s temperature is 103.4 when the nurse checks, and Garrett looks like he might have a stroke right there. “That’s higher than last night. I said we should have come then.”
The appointment is a blur, full of bloodwork and throat swabs, but the doctor who comes in and listens to Logan’s chest is both pretty and kind, so he doesn’t hate it as much as he otherwise might have.
He barely registers what they tell him, but Garrett’s sharp inhale is enough for him to know it’s not good. They let him go home though, so he takes it as a win.
Stumbling through the door of the house, lungs and legs both feeling like they’re on fire, Logan collapses next to Tucker for the second time this morning. Tucker just sneezes, and tosses half his blanket over Logan who moans in appreciation.
Dean barely acknowledges them, turning instead to Garrett who comes through the door with a heavy sigh. “Well? What’s the word?”
Garrett points at Logan with a raised eyebrow. “Influenza A, which turned into pneumonia. He’s sick as fuck.”
Pneumonia makes sense, Logan muses. Now that he thinks about it, this feels a lot like when he was twelve and had been sick for two full weeks before Jeff and him had taken a bus to the urgent care across town. How a 12 and 14 year old showing up alone, the former who was discharged with a diagnosis of pneumonia, didn’t trigger a CPS visit he’s still not sure.
Tuck coughs, lowering himself further into the couch. “So I probably hab the flu too.”
Grimacing, Garrett nods. “Yeah. Doesn’t seem to be hitting you quite as bad though. The doctor said fluids, cold meds, lots of rest.”
“What about him?” Dean asks, pointing a thumb at Logan.
“Antibiotics, inhaler, sleep. No hockey until he’s cleared by the team doctors. Same as Tuck, actually, but that shouldn’t be as long.”
Struggling to keep his eyes open, Logan is hit with a surge of panic. “Can someone tell Jules I’m okay?”
Huffing a laugh, Garrett adjusts the blanket over both his roommates. “Okay? Fuck no. I’ve been texting with them since last night though, they know what’s up. Said they’d stop by later today.”
Eyelids drooping, Logan mutters a quiet thanks. He’d been so resistant to any help, but at this point he shudders to think what kind of state he’d be in had they just left him to fend for himself.
It’s been so ingrained in him that he takes care of everyone else, and also himself, that admitting he even needed help, let alone accepting it, is hard.
As sleep overtakes him though, wrapped in a blanket beside one of his roommates, the other two bickering playfully over who was going to pick up Logan’s prescriptions, he realizes he likes this way a hell of a lot more.