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After what feels like an unending torrent of work, missions, and complaints from the professor about how his work ethic is slipping (god forbid), Scott is reasonably overwhelmed. He’s tired, underfed, running on too few hours of sleep, and a small gust of wind would be more than able to push him over. His shades hide the shadows under his eyes, but one doesn’t need to see him blinking back exhaustion to tell that he needs some rest, and now. His skin is pale and he’s sweating, but feels as though he just walked into a freezer.
He’s swallowing back another dose of aspirin and grimacing, hands clutching the surface of his desk to keep himself steady--Scott isn’t a fan of pills-- when he hears the telltale whooshing of Angel. Once again, Warren is making what is probably a graceful landing on the upstairs balcony. To those who didn’t know better, his descent and landings often sounded like a very large bird, ruffling its feathers and folding them closely against its streamlined body. However, Scott knows that Warren makes these rather loud landings to announce his presence. It’s comforting, knowing that his friend is back from wherever he had headed off to in the early hours of the morning. Scott had only been with Warren in the air a few times, but the time he had hitched a ride in Warren’s arms while the sun was rising had been something he could never forget. Warren had bundled him up tight, telling him how cold the air could get, especially before the sun peeked over the horizon. Scott, at the time, had felt a little silly wearing so many layers while Warren was just in his X-Man outfit, but he was more than thankful once they had ascended and the icy air hit his face. Scott finds himself daydreaming about their short jaunt in the sky that early morning, only jolted from the comfort of his mind with a sharp knock on his door. He teeters for a second, his balance already off from his rapidly worsening sickness, before collapsing to the ground with a loud thump. There’s a noise of surprise from behind the door, a rustling of feathers, and Warren lets himself into Scott’s room, concerned.
Scott isn’t sure how long he’s been out, exactly, but he can tell he needed the rest. The last thing he remembers is Warren looking him over, worry etched into his pretty features, a neatly manicured hand pressing against his forehead to check his temperature.
“You are burning up,” Warren had murmured, and Scott had made a vague groan of discomfort as he struggled to prop himself up on his hands. A wave of nausea hit him when he finally managed to sit up, and Warren had chided him, telling him to stay where he was. But now, from the feel of it, he was in his bed, the covers up to his chin. His sleep mask is securely keeping his surroundings safe, and Scott leans over to fumble blindly for his glasses. He finds them, pulls the sleep mask off, and puts his glasses on, pressing them against his face to reassure himself before opening his eyes. He was right about this being his bed, at least--but the blanket on top of him is something he’s never seen before. He strokes the fabric, in awe of just how soft and utterly beautiful it is. He pulls an edge close to him, and sees that the name Worthington had been stitched neatly into the fabric. In the back of his mind, he wonders just how much this must have cost, and then if Warren had sewn this himself. Scott looks around for a moment for any sign of his friend, before pulling the blanket up to his face and breathing in the scent that was undoubtedly Warren’s. Something about Warren taking care of him, scooping him up and placing him in his bed, covering him with the bedspread from his very own room made something warm and tickly blossom in Scott’s stomach.
This feeling is cut short, however, as Scott notices that the door to his room has creaked open, and a concerned Warren is peeking his head through the crack. Scott hurriedly tucked the blanket around himself, making very sure that Warren hadn’t noticed his piqued interest in the scent lingering on the fabric.
Warren looks as put together as always--his button up shirt is pressed neatly, the top two buttons undone just so to show off his collarbones. His hair is tousled perfectly, and his blue eyes are always so enchanting to Scott. Scott finds himself taking in every aspect of Warren, even the little freckles along his cheeks, and he absentmindedly reassures himself that everyone must look at Warren this way. Right? He was an angel, after all.
“Good! You’re awake,” Warren grins, and Scott mirrors his smile, happy to see him again.
“What happened?” Scott inquires as Warren takes a seat next to his bed, handing him a glass of something fizzing with carbonation.
“Well,” Warren purses his lips, running a hand through his wild blonde curls. “ Someone has been pushing himself too hard and had to be saved by an angel from above.”
Scott shrugs sheepishly, but keeps his mouth shut. Warren raises an eyebrow, continuing. His friend may have a point, but Scott would never admit it. “Look at you! Working your ass off without giving yourself any breaks! Everyone’s concerned about you, you hardly take care of yourself.”
Scott frowns. Now, that simply wasn’t true. He had a thorough grooming routine and made sure to practice it every morning. “I do take car--”
Cutting him off, Warren leans in to press a palm to his forehead again, checking his temperature. Scott hopes he can’t feel the rush of heat coming to his cheeks at the simple, yet intimate gesture. “Taking aspirin and Pepto Bismol isn’t taking care of yourself, Scott Summers. I can’t believe you even drink that stuff, it’s awful.”
“Not everyone can afford the most expensive medication, Warren,” Scott sighs, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He knows Warren means well, but he hardly feels like he has time to take breaks anymore. Things have gotten so hectic with the formation of the X-Men, with the rest of the world slowly but surely learning their names, and the enemies that seem to pop out of the blue twice a week.
At the mention of medication, Warren gestures at the full glass Scott’s still holding, contents untouched. “Have some,” he urges, continuing the explanation once Scott gives him a vaguely questioning look. “It’s just ginger ale, dummy. It is, however, the best I’ve ever tasted, and I think you’ll really like it.”
Scott really has no objections towards Warren’s direction, and takes a sip. He’s taken aback by the lightness of the soda; the carbonation and the flavors are both not too overwhelming, nor are they completely absent. The sweetness didn’t taste artificial, and he quickly takes a second sip. It’s a perfect balance of everything that made ginger ale just so good.
“Good?” Scott nods, and with that, Warren leans towards the side of his chair, fishing something out of the shopping bag Scott hadn’t noticed until now. He pulls out a bottle of pills, and Scott makes a face that doesn’t slip past Warren.
“Hey, I know you don’t like swallowing pills. These dissolve on your tongue, and they’ll help settling your stomach along with the ginger ale.”
Scott feels genuinely happy and thankful at how accommodating Warren was being. He hadn’t told his friends the gritty details of his past--the plane crash, the time he spent at the orphanage, or what took place after he ran away. They just knew that he was uncomfortable, sometimes easily upset by certain things; airplanes flying overhead, pills, and syringes, to name a few. But everyone at the mansion had been so quick to understand and help him out. This place really did feel like home to Scott. He puts his hand out and accepts the pills Warren hands him, and pops them in his mouth, allowing them to dissolve on his tongue. The taste isn’t terrible, either, but he still washes it down with another sip of ginger ale afterwards.
“How long was I asleep?” Scott asks, quirking his head slightly. Warren hums as he checks his watch, mental calculations as quick as ever, and pushes his sleeve back down to cover the expensive piece of jewelry.
“21 hours or so. It’s Saturday now, around 8:30 am.”
Scott’s expression transforms from something neutral and pleasant to a look of horror. He’s been asleep for nearly an entire day ? How much had he missed? How much work had piled up on him? Why had he let himself fall so far behind? He’s frantically pushing his covers aside and swinging his legs out of bed before Warren puts a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down.
“Do you think we’d let you crumble while you were catching up on your beauty sleep? Things are fine. No attacks, no emergencies, nothing to worry about.” Warren’s hand moves to his back, and he rubs soothing circles against his skin. Scott’s still panicking, knowing he ought to get out of bed and keep himself busy. He hates doing nothing, just letting time tick past when he knows he could be doing something productive. Despite the feeling of inadequacy creeping into him, however, nausea is still tugging at his stomach and he closes his eyes. Sitting up so fast was catching up to him fast, and once Warren notices his eyes screwed shut, he helps him lay back and tucks him in once again.
“Take it easy, Scott. You’re okay,” Warren says, softly. He brushes Scott’s hair away from his forehead and leans in. “Have some faith in the rest of us. You’re not going to be any help when you’re still feeling so rough. We’re all capable, and we know what to do when our leader needs some time to rest,” he continues, before his lips quirk up into a smile. “Even Bobby knows how to be helpful.”
Scott laughs quietly at that, letting a sigh out through his nose. Warren was right, he should have more faith in his teammates. They were X-Men just like him, and they could more than easily hold their own when he was down and out. He should take this time to rest, to bring himself back to 100% before he gets back into action. ‘It’s okay,’ he thinks. ‘I’m allowed to take breaks. It’s okay, Scott.’
Scott isn’t aware that he’s been starting to drift off until he hears Warren quietly get to his feet. He reaches out groggily, fumbling for Warren’s hand, and he hears the blonde let out a soft laugh.
“I’ll be back soon, Scott,” he whispers, his warm, slender hand intertwining his fingers with Scott’s. “We can have lunch together, okay?”
Scott nods sleepily at Warren’s words, giving his hand a small squeeze before his pulls away and grabs his sleep mask, fluidly exchanging his eyewear. As soon as he’s settled again, comfortable, and slowly drifting off, he feels a gentle kiss on his forehead.
His eyes flutter open, only to see the black material of his sleep mask staring right back at him.
Had Warren kissed him before leaving? Had he simply dreamt the feeling? He’s not quite sure, but both possibilities were equally lovely to him.
He can feel his cheeks heat up as he listens intently, the closing of his door and Warren’s footsteps slowly grow quieter and quieter. Scott sighs, flustered, and wraps himself tighter in his bed.
If he was still running a fever right now, it definitely wasn’t from his cold.