Chapter Text
He feels awful.
It really should not surprise him, by this point. He knows perfectly well that when he pushes this hard and gets this little sleep, he’s going to get sick. It’s a given. The last time he did this was PyeongChang, and it took a drawerful of vitamins from B2Ten and nearly a week of bed rest before he felt even marginally human again. Now, jet-lagged and beyond exhausted barely 48 hours after landing in Korea, he’s running on sheer willpower, and he’s not really sure how much longer he can hold out.
Tessa can tell, he knows. For one thing, by this point he can’t really breathe through his nose, so every time they skate together, he’s magically transformed into a mouth-breather who could rival the clichéd nerd character in every John Hughes film ever made. For another, he’s beginning to suspect that he might have slightly overdosed on the cough syrup immediately prior to the opening number, because he’s beginning to get this vaguely hazy feeling and the edges of the arena seem to be wobbling just a little.
He makes it through “Rock My World” just fine, even finds himself grinning like an idiot when he’s spinning with Tess in his arms; he can feel her smiling against his shoulder, and when she’s this happy it warms him deep in the marrow of his bones. As sick and as miserable as he currently is, he’d still do just about anything for that gloriously open smile.
“You okay?” she murmurs as they stroke off the ice together, hand in hand. He smiles at her broadly.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Just tired. Not feeling great. But I’m good to go for the rest of the show.”
She nods, but there’s a little crinkle between her eyebrows that says she’s worried. As soon as they get backstage, she curls up in one of the hideously uncomfortable folding chairs in a row against the back wall and pulls his head to her shoulder.
“Rest for a minute,” she murmurs, and he acquiesces, even though they should probably get up and get changed for the next number.
“How’s your head?” she asks after a moment, tilting her head so her cheek is resting against his hair.
“Pounding,” he answers truthfully. He hears her concerned little hmm , feels the sound vibrate through the top of his aching skull.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, reaching for his hand. She intertwines their fingers, rubs her thumb over the top of his hand.
“It’s okay,” he mutters, even though it really isn’t. He wants nothing more than to curl up with his head on her lap and go to sleep, but that’s not really an option. Not for the first time, he wishes they’d been a bit more conservative when they planned out their tour schedule. He can hardly remember the last time he slept in his own bed. (Their bed, really...and God, how he misses curling up with Tessa in any of the three beds they occupy on a regular basis.)
“I’m worried about you,” she whispers, turning her head to press a kiss to his temple. “This is twice in three months you’ve been this bad. What if you get pneumonia or something?”
He picks his head up off her shoulder with a truly monumental effort.
“Tess,” he says, and coughs. Clearly the cough syrup is not kicking in fast enough. “I’m not going to get pneumonia. I’m fine.”
She purses her lips and gives him her best I’m not buying your bullshit face.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “When we get back to the hotel tonight, I’m taking your temperature.”
Because he does not particularly want to get elbowed in the ribs, Scott refrains from pointing out that she sounds very much like a soccer mom, and instead does his damnedest to give her a reassuring smile.
“I’m fine, babe,” he says, and then before he can convince her that he’s not a candidate for the ER, the show organizer comes bustling up, insisting that they go get changed right this minute or they’ll be late for the next number, and that will never do.
By the time they get around to Moulin Rouge, he’s at least a little more alert, although he still feels like curling up on the nearest convenient chair and sleeping for a couple of millennia. Maybe longer.
“You good?” she whispers as they skate out in the darkness, and he shifts behind her for the opening position.
“Yeah,” he croaks, and she reaches for his hands, laces her fingers through his and rests their joined hands on her stomach. He leans in and presses a kiss to the curve of her neck, steels himself for the routine. No matter how horrible he feels, he can’t ever let her down, can’t ever give her a reason to not trust that she’s safe in his hands.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs as he hears the first notes ring out and she lets him go so his hands can slide up to her shoulders. It’s one of the keywords they learned in counselling years and years ago, I’ve got you, a statement and a promise all in one, and he’s meant every damn word every single time he’s said it. He sees her tiny nod, and he knows she heard him and understands.
Taking a deep breath, he puts his game face on and slides his hands down her shoulders, doing his best to smoulder intensely for the audience’s benefit while simultaneously wishing that he could blow his nose. (It is considerably more difficult than it sounds.) And then they’re into the program, the crowd clapping along enthusiastically, and the adrenaline takes over. It’s going to be fine, he realizes as they head into the first set of twizzles. He’s got this.
And he does. He screws up a set of twizzles early in El Tango de Roxanne, leaves out a full rotation and kicks himself for it mentally, but he moves on quickly. In a few seconds, he’s got her hips under his hands, humming walk the streets for money under his breath, and they’re back in sync. She keeps checking in on him all the way through, though, and he can tell she’s worried. Her smile is wide and bright and dazzling, just like it always is, but he knows from the way her eyes flit across his face that she’s concerned.
The lifts are flawless, though (he prides himself on that), and even though it hurts like hell to speak, let alone sing, he serenades her through every damn bar of Come What May. When she hits the final pose, he stands there holding her, fighting for breath, shaking a little from the exertion and the adrenaline.
“Just breathe,” she whispers to him, and then they’re twirling for their bows, and he’s so exhausted and so muddled that at one point he just takes both her hands in his and stands there smiling at her like an idiot. He’s so tired, so tired he can barely stand anymore. All the adrenaline’s wearing off, and he’s about to crash.
“It’s okay,” she mouths, and then they take their final bow and skate off, waving to Yuna as she weaves her way between them. Backstage, he collapses into the nearest available chair and buries his face in his hands.
“Oh, Scott,” she whispers, and he can feel her hand gently stroking his back. “Maybe we should tell Stephane you need a doctor. You look…”
She trails off, which he supposes is her way of trying to not insult him. He really doesn’t care either way.
“Just sit with me,” he pleads, reaching out a hand for her, and she sinks into the chair beside him. He curls into her helplessly, and she lays a cool hand on his cheek, her thumb skimming over his cheekbone.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, presses a kiss to his forehead regardless of who might see. “We pushed too hard, didn’t we?”
He shakes his head minutely. It hurts to move.
“We agreed on this,” he says. “It was a good idea. I…” he shivers, “...I probably shouldn’t have gone to that many schools. Probably picked this up from the little anklebiters.”
She chuckles.
“They loved you so much, though,” she says fondly. “Charlotte’s face when Danny told her you were coming to her school - that was priceless.”
He grins at the memory, despite how miserable he currently is.
“Yeah,” he says, nuzzling a little farther into her neck, “she was really pumped. She made us a card, you know.”
Tessa makes a little distressed noise.
“Scott, I know, it’s on our fridge in Montreal,” she says, sounding very worried again. “You know that.”
“Right, right,” he says, waving one hand limply as if to shoo his absurd lapse of memory away. “I knew that. But you didn’t know about the first card.”
She leans away enough to stare down her nose at him.
“The first card?”
“Yeah,” he says, and turns his head so he can cough. “She made a different one first, and the teacher made her re-do it.”
“Why on earth would she…” Tessa starts, and he smirks.
“Because there were cameras everywhere that day, and the first one she made said ‘To Uncle Scott and Aunt Tessa.’”
“Oh,” says Tessa, faintly. “Well, then.”
He wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her in close, looking up at her as she processes this information. He can’t decide whether she looks stunned or terrified, and decides to push it a little farther.
“See? Part of the family.”
She smiles then, shakily, and leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” she whispers, and smiles even brighter, making his heart thud wildly in his chest. “I guess I am.”
At that precise moment, Gabi comes sauntering past, looking at the two of them with an expression that reminds him of the time Danny stepped in cow manure out in their granddad’s back pasture.
“It is almost time for the finale,” she informs Tessa, and she eyes the Moulin Rouge costume Tess is still in with thinly veiled disdain. Tess, to her credit, smiles politely.
“Thanks, I guess we’d better go change,” is all she says in reply, but she waits for Gabi to move along before she takes Scott’s face in her hands.
“Go get ready,” she says, looking worried again. “And if you fall over in the dressing room, send Chiddy or Eric to come get me.”
“I’m fine,” he says, and she huffs out an irritated breath through her nose.
“Yes, just fine,” she mutters, and gets up to walk away. He grabs her hand.
“See you in ten?”
She softens minutely.
“In ten,” she says, and then she’s off. He stares forlornly at the floor. Really, he doesn’t think that anyone would notice if he wore his Moulin Rouge costume in the finale. One less night he would have put on that disgustingly shiny brown excuse for a jacket, at least.
(Two minutes later, Chiddy and Eric are gently frog-marching him into the men’s changing room, and then Jeff makes him take something small and white, and things get a little fuzzy after that.)
By the time they actually get out on the ice for the finale, he’s in a sort of delightful floating place that only bears a passing resemblance to the Mokdong Ice Rink. It’s wonderful. He runs around before the number starts high-fiving Eric and Guillaume and grinning cheerfully at everyone he sees. They are supposed to be getting into place for their bows, and he’s smiling happily at a flag waving in his peripheral vision when Tess tugs at his sleeve, muttering turn around out of the corner of her mouth.
They do their twists and twirls for the finale, form one big line on one side of the ice, and then for some reason he decides to head over to the other side a little early. Again, he feels Tessa’s tug on his sleeve, and he stays in place, bows and waves with the rest. When he glances to the side, she has a slightly frantic look in her eyes.
“It’s all good,” he tries to explain, but she doesn’t look even remotely convinced. He wants to stop everything for a minute, tell her how lovely and floaty everything is, how pretty the lights are when they’re all hazy at the edges, but then she tilts her head to the side and heads off around the rink, waving and smiling, and he follows suit.
Chiddy skates up beside him.
“Hi!” Scott chirps enthusiastically, and Chiddy raises an eyebrow. He slings an arm around Scott’s neck and grins at him.
“You better?” he asks, and Scott grins maniacally.
“I feel great,” he pronounces with considerable good cheer, and Chiddy’s eyes widen a little.
“All right,” he replies, dubiously, and then he skates away and they’re all coming together at center ice. Immediately, Scott finds her, laughing with the girls, and pulls her into his side. She fits there so perfectly, he muses, tiny and warm and perfect, and really she is the best thing in his entire life and he really ought to tell her that. Maybe he should get a microphone and just tell everyone. Once during CSOI wasn’t nearly enough.
Before he can put this excellent plan into motion, they’re smiling and waving at the crowd again, and then he’s lifting T to his shoulder for the final pose. He doesn’t even notice where his hand is until she nudges him in the ribs with her boot, and then he abruptly realizes that, instead of putting his hand on her lower thigh like he was supposed to, he’s practically going to third base. He shifts it down, quickly, and feels a flush creep up his neck.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he brings her down, but she shakes her head, telling him without words that it doesn’t matter, she knows he didn’t mean it.
“Come on,” she whispers, and after one more bow they’re skating off the ice, finally. It seems so nice, the dimness and the cool of it, because the hazy lights in the arena had just started this thing where they were swirling together and then breaking apart, and it was getting a little hard to keep up with them.
When he stops to put on his skate guards, he sways on his feet, knees starting to buckle, and she rushes to him, snapping, “Chiddy! Eric!” as she tries to prop him up. Before he quite knows what’s happening, there are two strong pairs of hands under his arms, guiding him to a row of chairs, and he’s lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling.
He can hear Tessa’s voice, sliding up in disbelief as she asks, “What the hell did you two give him? He’s as high as a kite! For God’s sake, tell me you didn’t give him some herbal powder or root or something, because I will seriously…”
Scott closes his eyes, and only vaguely hears Jeff’s apologetic murmur.
“Tessa, I’m sorry - I thought I was giving him Advil, but it turns out it was Advil PM, and I guess he doesn’t react to it well?”
She makes a frustrated sort of noise in the back of her throat.
“No, he really doesn’t. He never has. That, on top of all that cough syrup from earlier, and no wonder he’s out of it. When’s the bus coming?”
He loses track of things after that. Somewhere he dimly realizes that he feels very warm and very cold alternately, that somebody is making him get up and helping him to the changing room and shoving his duffle bag at him. There are gaps in time here and there, but somehow or other he ends up in his street clothes, on a bus with Tessa tucked into his side, her hand in his and her voice whispering sleep, Scott, just sleep it off, okay?
And then he drifts off and doesn’t remember a single thing until they’re pulling up in front of the hotel.
When they finally walk in to the lobby, he’s back to full sentience, but unfortunately he’s also back to feeling like hell. Between the head cold and the aftereffects of Advil PM, he can barely stand up straight, let alone find his own way back to her room. He hasn’t spent a single night in the one they assigned him, can’t imagine sleeping apart from her at this point. (He’s done enough of that already, thanks very much.)
When he stumbles getting into the elevator, she hisses in a breath and grabs his arm, hard.
“Scott,” she says, sounding shocked. “Are you all right to walk? Baby...you don’t look well. At all.”
He knows it’s bad when she calls him baby outside of their bed. Shit, but this is worse than he thought. He leans against the elevator wall, resting his head against the cool wood. It feels wonderful against his burning skin.
“I’m...I’m good,” he manages, closing his eyes. She punches the button for their floor, and he can feel the lurch as the elevator car shifts into gear. His bones are aching, and his joints feel like they’ve all been pulled in separate directions. Dimly, he remembers something he learned in history class when he was a kid, something about being stretched on the rack and a Spanish guy named Torquemada. That’s exactly what this feels like.
He’s not entirely sure how he manages to make it down the hall to her room (their room, really) or how she holds him up until he collapses face-down on the bed. He only really swims back to semi-coherency when she sits beside him and presses her hand to his forehead.
“You’re so warm,” she murmurs, and he hates the worried note in her voice. She’s worried enough about him over the course of the past 21 years, worried about his drinking and his habit of dating women who look just like her and about being good enough for him (which is still the stupidest thing he’s ever heard in his life). She doesn’t need to worry about this too.
“Tess,” he croaks into the pillow. “I’m fine. Just a cold. Nothing to - ” he breaks off when a coughing spasm overtakes him “ - to worry about.”
She ignores him.
“Maybe we should find a clinic, or call a doctor, or something. I’m sure All That Skate has someone on retainer, because I really don’t think you should get up again.”
He wants to roll his eyes, but his face is still smushed into the pillow, and he really doesn’t feel like moving his head. At all.
“No doctor,” he grumbles. “I’m fine.”
He hears her irritated little huff.
“You don’t look fine, or sound fine, and you were half-stoned during the entire final number,” she points out, and he knows without even looking that she’s ticking off her points on her fingers, the way she’s done during every argument the entire time he’s known her.
“I wasn’t stoned,” he argues, halfway turning over because this is actually an important point to make.
“I know that,” she says gently, skimming her fingers over his cheek. He turns into her touch without thinking. “But you were on out of it, on autopilot the whole time. Which tells me something’s wrong. You hardly ever do that.”
He reaches out for her hand, twisting his fingers around hers. She needs to understand this, needs to know that he’d never put her safety in jeopardy.
“I wouldn’t have gone on if I thought I couldn’t hold you.”
Her entire face softens, the worry lines fading away as she bends down to press a kiss to his temple.
“I know…” she murmurs into his skin. “You would never risk that. I know.”
It’s her quiet confidence, that bedrock certainty in her voice, that has him biting his lip to hold back a sudden swell of emotion. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, ever since he was a little kid, but when he’s this sick it’s like all his usual defenses fall all at once, and he’s flayed open, raw. It’s embarrassing, to be honest.
When he sneaks a glance at her, she smiles back and presses her thumb into his palm. She knows exactly what’s going on, but she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to.
“I still want to take your temperature,” she says after a moment, giving him time to pull himself together. He sniffs and tugs at her hand, which is ridiculously childish. He absolutely does not care.
“I don’t want to.”
Tessa gives him a look.
“Don’t be stubborn.”
He groans, feels the reverberations throughout his sinuses. God, but this is awful.
“Tess, please,” and he thinks he may just curl up and die from the pain in his head. “I just want to lay here and be still. It hurts.”
He’s begging and whiny and he ought to be embarrassed at how pathetic he is, but he isn’t. Even when he’s in pain (especially when he’s in pain), just having her next to him is a comfort. Why she puts up with his bullshit is anybody’s guess, but she always has, ever since they were little kids.
She sighs, but he can see the second she relents. Slowly, she slides down next to him, curling into his body.
“You’re so grouchy when you’re sick,” she says, but her tone is both wry and very fond. “Such a baby.”
He tries his best to bristle and fails horribly.
“Don’t pick on me, T, it’s not fair.” He sniffles dramatically, and she laughs at him. (Christ, he loves that sound. Twenty-one years together, and he still lights up when he hears her laugh.)
“I’m not picking on you,” she retorts, but it’s soft. “Have you eaten anything since lunch?”
He shakes his head.
“Not hungry.”
She frowns and scoots closer, anchoring her arm around his waist. He doesn’t know if there’s any scientific basis to it, but he swears that when she’s holding him like this, he feels a little better.
“You need to eat something. You can’t take anything for your headache on an empty stomach.” She checks the clock on the nightstand. "It's been long enough since you took that Advil PM for you to have something else, I think."
He thinks about the room service menu, but nothing sounds good. What he really wants is chicken soup, homemade, his mother’s recipe. Unfortunately, that does not seem likely to happen anytime soon. (If he’s being completely honest, it wouldn’t happen at home in Montreal either. Tessa is beautiful and brilliant and the love of his goddamn life, but she is hell on wheels in the kitchen and they both know it.)
“Nothing sounds good,” he grouses, and risks pressing a kiss to her hair. He can’t really smell her usual scent, stuffed up as he is, but it’s still comforting. He doesn’t want to get her sick too, knows that he really should insist that she go sleep in the other room while they’re on tour, but he selfishly wants her here. Everything is less miserable when she’s here, and besides, he knows she’ll refuse to go either way.
“You still have to eat something,” Tessa says firmly, and starts to shift away. He hastily curls an arm around her to keep her still.
“No, don’t,” he mutters, and she huffs out a half-chuckle.
“I’m ordering you food,” she says, determined. “But I can’t do that if you won’t let me go.”
“I don’t want food,” he protests, and he really did not think he could get any more pathetic, but clearly he was wrong. “I just want to lay here with you.”
“Oh, all right,” she says. “But just for a minute. Someone has to take care of you.”
“You always take care of me,” and it’s true. He watches hazily through half-lidded eyes as she curls into him, lets himself drift away for a moment as she gently rubs his back. He’s nearly asleep when she carefully extricates herself and rolls away.
“Mmmm, no,” he says, muffled by the pillow, but it’s too late and she’s already grabbed the room phone and stepped over to the window, talking softly so he can’t quite hear what she’s saying. When she comes back, he reaches for her reflexively.
“Uh-uh,” she says, and he knows that tone. It’s all business, and he curls deeper into the pillow as if that will somehow save him. “Go get a shower while you’re still able to move. I’ll put one of those eucalyptus bomb things in there, it’ll clear up your head a little.”
He pulls the pillow over his head.
“Scott Moir,” he hears faintly, and then her hands slide up his back, gently cup the back of his neck. “Get up.”
He moans pitiably.
“That is not going to work.” There’s a pause, a calculating pause, and when she speaks again, her voice has changed, gone low and husky. “Do I have to do this myself?”
He’s not sure whether she means undressing him or hauling him bodily into the shower. The former would be just fine by him, and he’s fairly certain that no matter how strong she is, she can’t actually accomplish the latter. Taking a chance, he peeks out from under the pillow.
“If you wanted to get me naked, Tess, all you really had to do was ask,” he says, and does his best to smirk.
She tries very hard to look severe, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth gives her away.
“If you’re feeling well enough to make a pass at me, you’re well enough to get in the shower,” she says, and then reaches down and tugs his shirt out of his waistband. “There, got you started. Go on.”
Sighing, he hauls himself into a sitting position and looks at her sadly.
“Just you wait till you’re sick,” he says morosely. “I’ll have you in the shower so fast…”
He trails off, realizing what he just said, and looks over to find Tessa snickering behind her hand.
“Dammit, I give up. I’m just going to…” She’s still laughing, and he sighs. “I’m never going to win, am I?”
Her eyes are bright and clear and fanned with laugh lines. She’s beautiful.
“Nope,” she says, and kisses his cheek. “Go.”
He does as he’s told.
The eucalyptus bomb thing works wonders, and he can almost breathe through his nose again by the time he leaves the steam-filled bathroom. She’s perched on the chair by the tiny writing desk with a tray beside her, typing something on her phone.
“Found you some soup,” she says, and grins at him. “You look like you feel a little better.”
He does, but admitting it would mean she was right.
“Hmm,” he mutters morosely, and goes to rummage in the suitcase by the door where they keep essentials like clean underwear and socks. “You know where my pajamas are, T?”
She glances up from her phone.
“Side pocket,” she says absent-mindedly as she finishes whatever she was typing. “There’s extra-strength ibuprofen in my medicine kit.”
Tessa, ever-prepared, brings a small black bag of over-the-counter medications everywhere she travels. He’s had to resort to it time and again over the years, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful for it than now.
“Thank you,” he tells her as he sets the bottle on the table. He leans over to kiss her forehead. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, kiddo.”
She flushes a little at the compliment, which still surprises him to this day. Then again, Tess has never once fully realized how incredible she is, a situation he is bound and determined to rectify if it takes him until he’s old and grey.
“It’s not really chicken soup like you’re used to, but it’s the best the kitchen staff had,” she explains. “They required a little...convincing.”
He chuckles as he sits down.
“Convincing, eh?”
She smiles demurely.
“Mm-hmm.” Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it for a moment. “As it turns out, Jun-Seo, who’s the head chef, is one of our biggest fans. He has our entire free dance memorized, it seems.”
He’s in the middle of his first bite when he realizes what she just said.
“Tessa,” he says slowly, “did you really use the fact that we are Olympic champions to get me a bowl of sort-of chicken soup?”
She gives him a positively ingenuous look.
“Of course not. I simply mentioned our names and All That Skate and he put the pieces together himself.” She looks extremely pleased with herself. “I may have promised him a joint autograph, though.”
He nearly chokes on his noodles. (For the record, Jun-Seo makes a damn good bowl of sort-of chicken soup. The noodles are wide and flat, and there are a few spices he doesn’t recognize, but it’s hot and soothing and exactly what he needed.)
“Tessa.” He sounds scandalized, but he can’t help it. “You promised him an autograph? ”
She actually smirks.
“It’s past midnight. How else was I supposed to get him to make anything?”
He shakes his head, not sure whether to be appalled or impressed.
“A force of nature,” he mutters into the bowl of his spoon, and she grins widely.
They’re interrupted by a knock at the door.
“That’ll be Chiddy,” she says, and holds up her phone, its screen filled with texts. “He made you tea.”
“No,” he groans immediately. “Please God, no.” He knows Chiddy’s odd tea obsession better than almost anyone, and he absolutely does not want to have some horrific loose-leaf herbal concoction shoved down his throat. No. Not happening.
Tessa glares at him.
“Be nice,” she hisses, and goes to answer the door. Chiddy immediately pokes his head in and grins.
“Still feeling under the weather?” he says, and holds up a large thermos. “This should help a bit. It’s chamomile, with valerian to help you sleep and some spearmint for the congestion.”
Scott rests his head on one hand and tries to look appreciative.
“Uh-huh,” he says, and because it’s Chiddy, he can’t resist adding, “Sounds very tasty.”
Patrick gives him a chastising sort of look.
“It’s supposed to help,” he says. “And Meagan gave me some of her herbal vegan powder stuff that’s supposed to up your vitamin intake and realign your chakra and I don’t know what all else. Apparently it makes you do everything short of cartwheeling down the halls.”
He can’t help but chuckle. God, he has the strangest group of friends, and he wouldn’t trade a single one of them for the world.
“Thanks, Chiddy,” he says, and then coughs. “If I end up cartwheeling, I promise to get Tess to video it.”
Tessa rolls her eyes. “There will be no cartwheeling. Or videos. Just sleep, and lots of it.”
Patrick smiles and hugs her.
“I’m not getting anywhere close to you,” he informs Scott as he squeezes Tess and then lets her go. “I don’t want anything even resembling what you have. You look like hell.”
“Love you too,” Scott smarts off, and Chiddy’s laughing on his way out the door.
“Drink up and get better,” he says, and then the lock clicks behind him and it’s just the two of them again.
“You are drinking some of this, you know,” she says bossily, wandering over to the little kitchenette to grab a mug. “It’ll help. Even if it does taste nasty.”
Two cups later, he maintains that it tastes thoroughly nasty, but something about it seems to be working nonetheless. Between the ibuprofen Tess gave him and whatever was in the tea, he feels sleepy for the first time in days. Not tired - he’s been tired down to his bones for what feels like years, but actually sleepy . It’s a wonderful feeling, and as he curls up under the duvet and hooks an arm underneath his pillow, he revels in the easy drowsiness that’s creeping over him.
There’s only one thing missing.
“Te-ess,” he cajoles, lifting heavy eyelids to watch her sitting at the little writing desk, typing quickly on her laptop. “Baby. Come to bed.”
She holds up a finger and keeps typing, which is usually her signal for I heard you, but I’m in the middle of a sentence and don’t want to forget it. He waits patiently for what feels like a very long time, but she’s still typing, face set and focussed, and while he knows perfectly well he should leave her alone and go to sleep like a sensible, independent human being, he really just wants her here, right beside him.
“Tutu,” he mumbles. He hasn’t used that one in a long, long time, mostly because it was his nickname for her when they were little kids. It’s been many years since she wore ballet shoes almost as much as skates.
“I’m almost finished,” she says distractedly, and then bites her thumbnail as she reads back over what she wrote. “It’s Nivea stuff, shouldn’t take much longer. Just have to fix this...here…”
And then she’s back to typing again. Scott is normally very, very proud of her numerous sponsorship deals. She’s smart and business-savvy and excellent at politely deflecting the insanely large proportion of asshats who like to criticize her life choices, and he is incredibly glad that she’s so good at what she does. But right now, at this precise moment, he just wants to curl up around her, bury his face in her shoulder, and sweet-talk her into playing with his hair so he can finally go to sleep.
“Are you posting stuff about me sniffing your arms again?” he asks, because if she won’t come cuddle yet, he might as well make conversation. “For the record, I’m fine with that. I’m even willing to pose just for the occasion.”
She snickers.
“No,” she says, and flicks her thumbnail against her teeth the way she always does when she’s trying to think about two things at once. “I got enough flak the last time I tried that. Not happening again.”
He rolls his eyes, and then regrets it. Even his eyeballs are sore.
“You sure?” he teases. “What about this HelloFresh thing? If we’re being honest, here, T, the two of us in matching aprons could be one hell of an advertising strategy.”
In the glowing light of her computer screen, he can see her lips press together like she’s holding in laughter.
“Maybe if we put you in just an apron,” she mutters, and he swears his jaw nearly drops. He loves it so fucking much when she plays like this, flirty and seductive and so damn funny. No one but Jordan and him will ever fully realize how funny Tessa is, which is a damned shame.
“I didn’t know it was that kind of product, T,” he says when he can speak again. “But whatever you want. I’m game.”
She looks up from her laptop at that and bites her lower lip.
“Looks like I’ll be investing in an apron, then,” she says, deadpan, and he laughs so hard he starts coughing and ends up wheezing into the pillow while she comes over and thumps his back.
“Jesus, T, you’re going to kill me one of these days,” he huffs out when he’s kind of got his breath back. She sits down on the edge of the bed beside him and cups his face in her hand.
“Not such a bad way to go,” she says drily, but punctuates the quip with a quick kiss to his forehead. “All right, I’ll finish my stuff up in the morning. You need sleep, you’re starting to say crazy things.”
She kisses him again, lips skimming over his cheekbone, and gets up to change into her pyjamas. He watches her quietly from his vantage point on the bed. He may be sick, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to do anything tonight, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to look.
She pulls her soft cotton shirt over her head, shucks off her Lululemons, and stands there for a minute in just her simple black boyshorts, rummaging around in her suitcase for her pyjamas. For what has to be the thousandth time he runs his eyes over her, all creamy skin and stray freckles here and there, strong legs and toned abs and dark hair falling out of its braid down her back. He loves every inch of her, from the faint scars on her legs to the utter perfection of her ass, and he wants her to know it every day of his life. He wasted so much time, he thinks, running after everything except the person he wanted most. He doesn’t want to waste another moment.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he says, the words a little slurred from the desire to sleep that’s pulling him under like a tidal wave. “Just thought you should know.”
She turns from the suitcase, smiling, and blows him a kiss.
“I’ll thank you properly for that when you’re all better,” she says, and he shifts under the duvet. Even with a fever and a raging head cold, his body still responds to her, like an autonomic reflex or something.
“I’ll remember that,” he mutters, and then she pulls her pyjamas on and heads off to the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. He drifts for long moments, slow and lazy and warm, and only rouses slightly when she slides into bed next to him and clicks off the lamp.
“Oh, good,” he mutters, already half-asleep, and he feels her silent chuckle as he drapes his arm around her waist. “What’s funny?”
She doesn’t answer, just rolls over and gently shoves at him until he flips around; when she’s got him situated to her satisfaction, she curls herself around him, nuzzling into the back of his neck. He hums with pleasure when she leans up just a little to press a kiss behind his ear.
“I can play with your hair better this way,” she whispers, and then her slim fingers slide into his still-damp hair, scratching lightly along his scalp, and he’s in heaven.
He fucking loves it when she plays with his hair, has loved it for the better part of 20 years. It calms him down when he’s restless or nervous, soothes him when he’s miserable or scared, and God knows it’s a turn-on when she stares at him with a challenge in her eyes, grabs his hair, and pulls. (He has vivid, vivid memories of her doing exactly that on the ice during Carmen, and he really thought he would explode with highly inappropriate levels of arousal in front of God, his parents, and Skate Canada.) Off the ice, she figured out by the second time they had sex that tugging his hair results in a near-complete loss of control, and has shamelessly used that realisation to her advantage ever since.
Right now, though, she’s doing it purely to comfort, long, slow sweeps of her fingers through the messy strands, her breathing deliberately measured. She’s warm and soft, pressed up against his back, her lashes tickling the sensitive skin at his nape, and he’s so peaceful and safe and loved that he wishes he could stay right here for the rest of time. It’s these moments, the quiet ones in the little cocoon of their bed (no matter where they are), that choke him up a bit, make him realize how damned lucky he is to have her. How, when they’re 85 and tottering around with glasses and canes watching Jeopardy together, she’ll still be the only woman he wants to fall asleep next to.
Groggily, he reaches for her other hand and tugs it around his body, pulls it up to his mouth, and presses a kiss to the palm.
“Love you,” he mutters, and he hears her breath catch behind him.
“Love you too,” she murmurs, and then she pulls her hand out of his to curl it around his ribcage and holds him as close as she possibly can. He rests his hand over hers, laces their fingers together, and lets himself relax into her hold. Slowly, deliberately, she pulls in a deep breath, lets it out, and he feels his heartbeat slow in time with hers.
The last thing he remembers before he loses consciousness is the feeling of her fingers twined with his.