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They have a running joke that shit always goes wrong when one of them is out of town. Like when a tropical storm flooded their basement while Adam was in Colorado for a conference. Or, when both Noah & Maeve got the chicken pox and Adam got a nasty cold while Ronan was at the National Farmers Union convention in Georgia. Or, when Ronan broken his foot playing in the treehouse with Maeve while Adam was in California for a research meeting (“Daddy, guess what words I learned this weekend! Jesus Fucking Shit Christ In Heaven Fuck! ”)
Running joke, or horrible fucking curse. Ronan hasn’t decided yet.
Adam is at MIT for a long weekend, suffering through an academic conference while Ronan takes care of the girls. He’d been alone with them for 24 hours, and so far, nothing disastrous has happened. A temper tantrum at bedtime from Noah--fixed by getting Noah’s blanket from the laundry that Adam thankfully remembered to run before he left--and a minor scraped knee from Maeve--cured simply by telling Maeve she’s a tough cookie and giving her a black band-aid so she could match her dad--but otherwise all is calm.
Saturday morning, it’s raining and cold. Ronan wakes up far earlier than he needs to be on a rainy Saturday morning, and he feels off. Like something’s wrong. Adam’s arm isn’t around him. Usually he wakes up to Adam’s arm around his waist, morning stubble against his shoulders.
Ronan rolls over in bed, and finds the other side of the bed cold. Fuck. Right. Adam’s not here. He exhales noisily, and rubs a hand down his face. His joints ache. He doesn’t know why, can’t remember having done any unusual physical labor. Maybe playing airplane with Noah, but that’s not uncommon. His legs should have some fucking stamina by now. He’s not that old.
He’s groggy, too. Moreso than normal at the asscrack of dawn. Maybe he can get another few more minutes of sleep, wake up on a more-right side of the bed instead of whatever shitty side he’s on right now--
The door creaks open. He cracks open an eye. Two sets of big doe eyes are staring at him.
“Dad?” Noah says.
Ronan groans, “Yes, love?” And apparently acknowledgment is enough of a fucking invitation for these two little gremlins, because next thing he knows they’re clambering over him, and not like he can ask them kindly to go back to bed because who could possibly look at those girls and ask them to leave.
Ronan is very interested in going back to sleep. Noah and Maeve are very interested in taking up 89% of the bed with their tiny human bodies and trying to make static sparks in the comforter.
Then Lucy the Border Collie comes in and jumps on the bed; and Chainsaw returns from her hunt and starts squawking at the girls as they giggle; and God fucking forbid the family be in one place and Cow the Corgi not; so then there’s two small humans, two dogs, a raven, and before the fucking horse can come through the door and join them Ronan grumbles a series of fake-curses under his breath and stumbles to the kitchen to make pancakes. So much for sleeping.
A cup of coffee, two glasses of water, and a cold shower do nothing to clear the fog in Ronan’s head. With every passing hour his body hurts more and more. The girls are stuck inside with the rain, and Ronan is running out of activities that will allow him to stay on the couch beneath a blanket.
He brings their drawing desk from the playroom to the living room, and turns on some soft irish music that they both seem to like. His head throbs. His throat feels like he’s swallowing acid every time he sips water.
And then he pukes. Barely makes it to the bathroom before his breakfast makes a surprise reappearance. And once he’s done heaving, he feels like he’s been hit by a fucking freight train.
He washes his hands for at least a minute under scalding water, brushes his teeth, and returns to the living room with the girls. He collapses onto the couch with a shiver.
“Dad, do you need a nap?” Noah says, looking up from her Jackson Pollock-inspired masterpiece of glitter, sequins, and is that dog food--
“I’m good,” Ronan mumbles. He curls in on himself on the couch. Lucy licks his face and he’s too tired to do a damn thing about it.
“You make me nap when I feel bad.”
“Because you’re little. I’m an adult. Adults don’t need naps.”
“Daddy naps all the time,” Maeve notes.
“Because Daddy hasn’t had a normal sleep schedule in 22 years.”
“Why?” Noah squeaks.
“We’ll discuss when you’re older,” Ronan says around a cough.
“Why?”
Because his husband’s workaholic tendencies are not something he wants to get into with their kids when he feels like he’s been dragged behind a semi for 42 miles. Or ever.
“Later. Why don’t you cover the entire page with glitter?” he says, praying to God that distracts her, because he really cannot handle the endless spiraling of “whys” right now.
Cow whines. Ronan groans. He stumbles to the bathroom and throws up again, and then lets the dogs out.
He’s equal parts burning and freezing now, skin prickling with chills while a sheen of sweat glistens along his brow. His head is killing him. Every cell in his body hurts. He takes some pain killers, but doesn’t have any faith that his stomach will keep them down right now.
The dogs bark to be let back in; he doesn’t care that they’re covered in mud and sopping wet. The girls shriek as they shake themselves by their drawing table. Like a nail gun shooting through his skull.
Maybe a nap isn’t such a terrible idea. Sargent and Gansey are coming soon to hang out with the girls, so if he can just lie down upstairs until they get here...
“Girls,” Ronan rasps. His throat is starting to rebel against him as well. “I’ll be upstairs. If you need anything, come get me?”
“Okay.”
It takes an enormous amount of effort to drag himself up the stairs, and he nearly coughs up a lung once he gets to the top. God, he feels like a fucking wreck. Absolutely fucking awful. He collapses into bed, doesn’t even get himself under the blankets before he passes out.
When he opens his eyes again, everything is swirling, and whirling, and blue.
Blue?
“Hey, buddy,” Blue sings, fingers snapping in front of his face, loud and sharp, over and over, and it turns his stomach and--he’s throwing up off the side of the bed and into a bucket. He can’t remember the last time he ate, though, so it’s more just gross noise than anything productive.
“Good call on the bucket, Maeve,” Blue says. Hands, shockingly cold, are on his forehead, then cheek. All clinical. Not Adam’s soft touch.
“Lynch?” Blue says, softer this time. Ronan moans. His eyelids are still so heavy, but he manages to open them anyways, just for her. “Hi, good morning,” she says with more sass than is called for; clearly she doesn’t appreciate his incredible effort, which, fuck her. He manages to give her the middle finger.
“Good to see you, too. We’re going to the doctor, like, right now.”
Doctor? The girls don’t have appointments. Unless, shit, did he forget? Adam is going to kill him--
“Not for them, idiot,” Blue snorts. “For you. Come on, up you go.”
Blue pulls him up so he’s seated, then hooks his arm over her shoulder and heaves him to his wobbling feet.
Ronan stares at her. “You’re so short,” he slurs, “how’d’you get me?”
“Ha ha, so glad you can still tell shitty short jokes. Oh, shit. I mean, shoot . Uh, sorry Maeve. Don’t tell your dad I said that word.”
“I’m right here,” Ronan grumbles.
“Not you. The other dad.”
"Daddy, not dad."
"Excuse me?"
"Adam is daddy. I'm dad."
Blue raises a brow and holds back a laugh.
"Don't even, Sargent."
"I have nothing to say about anything," Blue says in such a way that means she has plenty to say about it.
“Dad says the 's' word all the time," Maeve says with a shrug. "I’m good at keeping secrets.”
“Oh I bet you are, kiddo."
“Damn right,” Ronan grumbles, and moves a flopping arm to fistbumps his daughter before Blue intercepts.
“Okay, first, stop trying to put your germy hands near your young and flu-susceptible daughters. Second, use your legs. I’m not dragging you all the way to the car. Maeve, honey, can you go wash your hands? Sing Uncle Gans ‘Happy Birthday’ twice while you’re rinsing.”
“Kay. Bye, Dad.” And the sound of her percussive little feet running down the hall almost makes him puke again.
“Did they get their flu shots?” Blue asks, sitting Ronan down in the living room and sliding on his shoes.
Ronan nods. “Adam made ‘m.”
“Didn’t make you?”
“Don’t need it.”
Blue snorts. “Yeah, clearly.”
Maeve and Noah are singing “Happy Birthday” to Chainsaw now, who’s happy to crow along. Gansey is talking to someone, using his placating voice. “We think it’s the flu. Yes. Yes, Blue’s taking him now. Yes. Parrish--yes, yes, Adam, we’ll take care of it, don’t--no, you don’t owe us anything--”
“Alright. Up you go,” Blue announces, helping him to his feet once more. His legs are wobbly and every step makes him ache more and more, but he manages to get to The Pig without collapsing, so that’s a fucking victory for the day.
Ronan blinks, and they’re at Urgent Care. Blinks again, he’s in the waiting room. Blinks again, he’s answering questions with a nurse.
“Definitely the flu,” the doctor proclaims. “Get ready for a rough few days, Mr. Lynch.”
“Fucking great,” he wheezes, and then has a coughing fit that threatens to make him puke again.
He gets lectured about how he should have gotten more rest, and should have gotten a flu shot. Gets a prescription for Tamiflu. Gets ordered to stay away from his daughters.
Blue takes him home, and gets him back into bed. He changes into sweats and a thermal shirt before cocooning himself in blankets.
He’s asleep within seconds. Doesn’t wake up until Blue comes in a few hours later with broth and Tamiflu and keeps him awake until he eats and downs the pill. And then the world starts to blur at the edges again and his eyes slip close and he’s out before Blue can finish her sentence about dosing times.
#####
His fever is really fucking high. He knows this because he feels really fucking high. He’s thirsty, and wants to take a bath because he thinks the water will absorb through his skin and make him less thirsty faster. He thinks this is revolutionary, that he’s discovered the next great phase of human evolution.
“I see how that logic works, really I do,” Gansey says when Ronan tells him this genius plan. “But I think, for now, your mouth is the best way to rehydrate.”
Full offense taken that Gansey doesn’t believe him. But he can’t draw the bath for himself right now since he’s seeing double and can’t stop coughing, so he’s forced to drink water the archaic way.
He’s stuck in a cycle. Sleep, wake up, eat soup, take meds, then back to sleep. Maybe hack up a lung. Maybe have another life-altering revelation fueled by--what did Gansey say it was? 103.5? Good God no wonder he felt like shit--fever-induced delirium.
But the girls. Who’s watching the girls?
“Blue is,” Gansey tells him.
But what if they get hurt? What if they start crying? What if they miss him? What if they turn into the little demons they do sometimes and he doesn’t want Blue to have to deal with them--
“We’ve babysat them before, Ronan,” Gansey says. “Everything is okay. I promise.” And it must be the fourth or fifth time he’s asked because Gansey seems to have the response preprogrammed ready to recite
He coughs again, lungs straining and throat burning. At least he stopped puking. Always a plus.
The Nyquil kicks in, and he’s out once more.
#####
Gansey wakes him up with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Ronan, but Noah is looking for a toy? She’s crying, and we can’t figure out where it--”
“Blinky?” Ronan croakes. Gansey nods. “Barn. On the desk.”
Gansey looks out the window with a grimace. “Is there anything else she--”
“I’ll get it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gansey scoffs, but Ronan is already throwing back the covers and moving to stand.
“No, Lynch, absolutely not. You are not going all the way to the barn in the dark, in the rain to get a toy. She’ll be fine. Lay back down right this instant!”
Ronan grabs his jacket and boots while Gansey babbles in dismay. He’s not listening to a single stupid thing coming out of Gansey’s mouth. Get to the barn. Get Noah’s toy. That’s all he needs to do.
“Ronan Lynch, stop, it’s just a--Blue!”
“What, Dick,” Blue shouts back. Noah is wailing in the living room, face beet red as big fat tears roll down her round cheeks. Blue takes one look at Ronan and looks like she’s about to lose her fucking mind.
“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” she snaps at him. Usually he has a little more will to listen to Blue than Gansey, but right now his brain is capable of two thoughts: 1. Get the toy, 2. Stop the crying.
Blue is still telling him to stop as he rummages through the closet for the flashlight, words hushed and sharp so the girls can’t hear. “Don’t even think about opening that door, I swear to God I will end you. It’s just a toy, she will live. Go back upstairs you stubborn fucking bastard--”
“It’s not just a toy,” Ronan snarls, which makes him cough. “It’s Blinky.”
“The hell does that even mean? Ronan!”
Ronan throws open the door, coughs a few times into his elbow, and turns to the girls. “Noah,” he says, words as painful coming out of his throat as they sound. “Stop.”
Noah hiccups once more and falls silent.
“Maeve, help Blue get Noah in the bath.”
Maeve nods and takes Noah's hand.
He goes out into the rain.
It’s a good thing he’s running on pure Fatherhood Heroics adrenaline right now, because there is no way this rain is going to be good for him. Although the rush of cold air and sleet does feel good against his burning cheeks. He’s soaked by the time he makes it to the barn. Does this count as a shower?
The locks on the barn are dreamed, only opening for him or Adam. There is an extra key hidden in Cabeswater, just in case something happens. A key that will destroy itself, also just in case something happens. Man, he’s become seriously paranoid in his old age.
Blinky--a plump elephant with mismatched buttons for eyes and a quilted fabric body--sits exactly where Ronan put it after Noah left it in the field one day last week.
He puts the elephant in a plastic bag and shoves it under his coat. He coughs until he’s light-headed, takes a second for his lungs to pull their shit together, and treks back out in the rain.
Blue is waiting by the open door. “Jesus Christ, Lynch,” she sighs as he doubles over with the cough.
He hands her the plastic bag. “Sanitary,” he manages.
Despite herself, a smile pulls at Blue’s lips. She shakes her head. “Get your ass back upstairs.”
He slips off his boots and dripping coat, shivering violently as he climbs back to the bedroom. Exhaustion hangs around his neck like a 150lb weight.
Gansey laid a towel and fresh clothes on the bed for him. He dries himself off, pulls on the new clothes, and collapses back into bed.
Noah squeals with delight from somewhere downstairs. Ronan smiles and tumbles back into his fever dreams.
######
A dog is on the bed when he wakes up next, immediately doubling over in a coughing fit. Freezing rain lashes the window.
Gansey opens the door, careful and quiet. He takes his temperature.
“Girls asleep?” Ronan asks around the thermometer. He has no clue what time it is, but if Cow’s upstairs that means it’s late.
“Yes. Don’t talk or it’ll take longer.”
Ronan concedes. His reward? His fever is down to 102.7.
“Noah okay?” he says once Gansey allows him to speak again.
“Sound asleep with Blinky. Although I’m sure she could have found another toy to sleep with tonight--”
“No. She couldn’t’ve.”
“I really do think--”
“No,” Ronan insists. He coughs into his elbow and takes another dose of Nyquil. “He smells like Adam.”
Gansey stares at him for a moment. “It what?”
“He. He smells like Adam.”
“How?”
“Dreamed up special soap once that smells like ‘im. I wash the elephant with it. The blanket she has smells like me. Same thing. Special soap.”
Gansey stares at him a moment more, and then huffs out a laugh. “You incredible, magical man,” he says. “Does Maeve--”
“Percy, her stuffed dog. ‘S Adam’s. KitKat the cat is me.”
Gansey smiles down at him. “Do you use it for yourself?”
Ronan doesn’t say anything.
Gansey smiles wider. “Who knew you’d be such a sap?”
Ronan shoves him. “Get outta my fucking room, ‘else I’ll cough on you.”
Gansey does.
“Wait,” Ronan says before Gansey can shut the door. “Bedding ‘n shit. For the guest room--”
“I know where it is. Don’t worry. Sleep.”
Ronan does.
######
The next time he’s vaguely lucid again, Cow is snorting and yipping and shaking his stumpy little tail so hard that it’s like an earthquake in the bed. Someone is shushing him, whispering about what a good boy he is for taking care of his dad while he’s been gone, and how he needs to chill or else he’ll wake him up again, and then someone is calling Cow’s name and he slips all over the wood floor trying to race out of the room.
Then a hand is running over his scalp, and God damn it, it feels like Adam’s beautiful, gentle, calloused hands, down to the cold metal of the silver wedding band around his finger.
But it can’t be Adam. He may be out of his fucking mind delirious from the fever, but even he knows Adam’s in Boston. Not here. Not in Virginia. Even if the fingers feels right, even if the touch is gentle and loving and hitting all the right spots, it’s not Adam. It’s a fever dream. Not Adam. God he wishes it were his husband. Wishes so, so badly for it to be his husband, but he knows his he opens his eyes he’ll just be disappointed. So he doesn’t.
He lays in bed, eyes shuts, and enjoys the fever dream for as long as he can until he slips back into unconsciousness.
#####
Someone is talking. Multiple someones. Muffled words outside the closed door.
“We can stay. Really. It’s our pleasure to hang out with the girls for a little longer.” That sounds like Gansey.
“That way you don’t have to worry about keeping them away from Ronan, or cross-contaminating. I know you did flu shots, but you never know.” That sounds like Blue.
“I can’t ask y’all to do that,” someone sighs. And it sounds like Adam. But Adam isn't here. He’s in Boston. “I already feel like shit that y’all’ve had to deal with this and exposed yourselves. I can’t ask you to stay.”
“We wouldn’t have offered if we didn’t know the risk. Just let us do this, okay?”
There’s a pause and a long sigh from Adam-Who-Isn’t-Adam. Ronan can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always does. But this isn’t Adam. Adam’s in Boston. Not in Virginia. So he’s not pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing, because he’s reading his smart-guy paper to a bunch of other smart guys, and he’s getting a standing ovation ( do they even do those at academic circle jerks conference?) and is being showered in business cards and accolades and winning a Nobel Prize because he’s the smartest guy in a room full of smart guys.
He’s not here. It’s just Ronan, the girls, too many animals, and Sargensy. Which, that’s a good name for them. He should suggest it for when they get married. Hyphens are so 2010s.
“Fine,” and this Adam-Who-Can’t-Be-Adam sounds sincere. “I really appreciate it, guys. I’m so sorry about all this--”
“If you apologize one more time, Parrish, I will buy Noah the most obnoxious noise-making toy I can possibly find for her birthday. ”
“Okay, okay. Thanks.”
The fever pulls at his mind again. He lets it take him away once more.
#####
“Ronan?”
That voice. Just like Adam’s.
“Ronan. Tamiflu. You’ve gotta take it.”
But if he opens his eyes, he’ll see it’s just Gansey. Not Adam. That his brain is just tricking him into thinking his husband is here with him, when really he’s way too fucking far away.
“I know you’re awake, you asshole. C’mon.”
And there’s only one person on this earth who could call him an asshole with that much affection. So it’s worth the risk.
He opens his eyes. Blinks a few times so Adam’s tired, travel-weary face can come into focus.
“Adam?” he croaks.
“Lynch,” Adam says, and his smile is pure relief. “Glad you’re not dead.”
“When did you--”
“This morning. Took an overnight train from Boston. There weren’t any flights left.”
“The conference?”
Adam shrugs. “I did my panel yesterday. Nothing I couldn’t miss today.” He rubs his fingers across Ronan’s scalp, hitting all the right spots. The wedding band is cold against his skin. Ronan moans. “How’re you feelin?”
“Shittier than shitty,” Ronan says, and punctuates it with a ferocious coughing fit.
“Should’ve gotten a flu shot,” Adam says.
“Shut up.”
Adam laughs. “Take your meds and go back to sleep. I need my co-parent back.”
Ronan downs the pill with a glass of water. “That’s all I’m good for now, huh?”
“That and sex.”
“Oh, okay. As long as I’m still good for that.”
Adam kisses his forehead, his temple, his cheek, his jaw. He tosses a blanket over him. It smells like hickory trees and oil changes, warm summer nights and old books and hand lotion and Irish Spring soap; it smells like the father of his daughters, like the love of his life.
“Rest,” Adam says.
And Ronan does.