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“I like your pajama pants,” he says. “Koala bears. Funky.”
Pidge hums in simple response, preoccupied with whatever the hell kind of inspection they’re doing over his stomach. It’s always a weird sensation whenever they touch his abdomen — Pidge typically has ice-cold little raccoon fingers, and his skin always feels feverish even though he’s never running a temperature, and generally he’s very tender under the belly button anyway. They poke at him, lower right quadrant, and he winces.
“You’re kinda bloated.” Pidge looks up at him through messy hair, not-quite-golden on the edges with the light from his bedroom lamp. They know his giveaways by now, and they’ve developed a knack for predicting flares before they happen, like a service dog but chattier. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be alright, I just… probably didn’t eat so well today.” (Hunk knows he’ll suffer for eating so much processed sugar two days in a row but damnit it was his birthday yesterday and digestive disorders didn’t hold him back in space so they shouldn’t on Earth.) “I’d pull out the heating pad but you’re already— ow! Stop poking me, what the hell!”
“Stop whining, you big baby, I’m checking you.” But he hears the concern in their voice, feels the affection. It’s nice to be cared about, he thinks. “Did you take a painkiller?”
“Tylenol, but we both know Tylenol doesn’t do shi—“
“W’bout your pills? That gross stuff that dissolves?”
“Uh, chyeah, every day. Did you take yours?”
“Hey, this isn’t about me! Did you put the cortisone cream on your—“
“We are not discussing my butt issues.” A gentle whap on the head. “C’mon, P, really. I’ll be fine. Let up.”
Pidge makes a little raspberry sound but they relent, wedging themself under the covers and curled inside his arm. Hunk instinctively pulls them closer, resting his chin on top of their head. Pidge shifts to better rest their head on his chest; curls tickle his nose, but he knows the steadiness of his heartbeat is soothing, so he doesn’t dare complain.
“I really worry about you, y’know.” Pidge murmurs, suppressing a yawn. They hook an arm around his waist, and he can tell they’re trying to be gentle so they don’t hurt him. It’s sweet, very sweet, helps his mind dull the incessant throbbing under where their arm rests.
Hunk smiles. “I know you do. A-“
“And I already know you’re gonna be like Pidge, worrying is my thing, don’t steal my schtick, buh-buh buh buh or whatever, but we’re both stuck with the same kind of anxiety so you’re just gonna have to learn to share.”
(snort.) “Is that how I sound to you? Buh-buh buh buh?”
“Yeah, and what of it.” Pidge gives a little sigh, fluttering their eyes closed for a moment. “I can’t help it, y’know? I just feel like… I don’t know. You’re always looking after me, because my life is a mess and my sleep schedule is a mess and I’m a mess, and I just… I want to be able to look after you too.”
“You do, Pidge.” He reaches to comb fingers through their hair, uses his free hand to hold theirs that’s slung over his waist. “You do, you really do. I assure you it’s a two-way taking-care-of, like— like okay, I mean yeah I come drag you to bed ‘cuz I want you to sleep more than six hours a night instead of working, but man, I worry so much that sometimes the only way I can sleep anymore is when I know you’re here to keep me safe if something bad happens.
I get so wrapped up in everybody else’s problems, and Earth’s problems, and the universe’s problems— I lose myself. My health goes to shit and then my mental health goes to shit and I lose myself. And you’re always there when it happens, and just being there helps me so much, you know that? You’re always there to anchor me. That’s looking after me, Pidge.”
Pidge doesn’t respond to him, but slowly he feels them start to untense, to melt into his side and relax for once. He hears one sniffle, then another, then feels hot tears on his worn-out E•mo•tion tee. He cries a little with them, but neither of them are sad, they’re just tired, exhausted from a life of constant pain and anxiety that the war created and that follows them even with the war over.
“And you’re not a mess, either.” He kisses the top of their head, wipes their tears with his knuckles. “I mean, maybe a little bit, but no more than I am. So it’s good we worry about each other, yeah? We’re messy together.”
Pidge sniffles again but they smile for him, small but meaningful. They sit up for a moment to give him a tender, soft kiss, then settle their head in the crook of his neck.
“I like being messy together.” Pidge says. “It suits us, I think.”
Hunk reaches to shut the lamp, lets the darkness wash over him. He feels safe. “I think so too.”