Work Text:
The first night of their anniversary trip is ideal. They rent a cabin in Tahoe and go on a long hike to a stunning overlook. Bard wears a clingy white tank-top he sweats though so that it’s translucent by the time they reach the summit, and frankly Bofur thinks that view is even better. They get caught in the rain half-way back, and end up getting soaked, laughing hysterically and dripping everywhere by the time they make it back to camp. Bofur tackles Bard to the bed, and they fuck for literal hours. It’s heaven, and even a whole year after making this thing official, Bofur still can’t believe this is his life.
He falls asleep curled around Bard’s back, face pressed into his favorite space between his shoulder blades, and then right around dawn, he’s awoken by a sneeze.
Then another.
“Allergies?” he slurs, half awake, rubbing his mustache into the notches of Bard’s spine.
“No,” Bard croaks. “I think m’sick. I think I have a fever.”
And about three seconds later he starts shivering and Bofur is, quite suddenly, wide awake. His nanny-mode snaps into action and before he even makes himself coffee he's pulling on some clothes and driving to Stater Brothers to stock up on medicine. He even texts Oin for suggestions, since he always has weird but generally effective natural remedies up his sleeve.
fresh garlic and coconut oil for anti bacterial, fresh ginger for digestion, honey for the throat, chili power for the sinuses. drink that, it kills everything. I swear by that shit he sends back, and so, Bofur grabs some ginger and garlic and spices alongside the Dayquil, too. Whatever it take to take care of Bard, he’s willing to try.
When he gets back to the the cabin, he chops everything up into tiny bits and boils it down as instructed, and then once it’s cooled off a bit and Bard wakes up, looking pitiful, he makes him drink it. “Is it gross?” he asks, petting Bard’s hair with one hand, shaking a bottle of ibuprofen with the other, ready to dole some out as soon as Bard has something in his stomach.
“No, s’not terrible. Sort of like. A thai soup?” he rasps. Then he looks up at Bofur miserably, brow knit and troubled. “M’sorry,” he says before he sniffles, clutching his mug and settling closer to Bofur’s side. “I’m sure this is not what you imagined for our anniversary weekend. You wanted to hike and swim in the lake and like—fish and shit. Instead you’re doing what you always do: taking care of me.”
“Correction,” Bofur says, kissing the top of Bard’s head, loving the soft slip of his hair under the press of his lips. It’s starting to get storm again, chilled gusts of wind buffeting the windows and pelting the glass with rain, and all he can think to do is crawl back in to the comforting heat of the bed. So, he kicks of his boots and does just that. “I wanted to spend time with you for our anniversary. Which m’still doing, right? I like takin care of you,” he reminds Bard, carding fingers through his hair, loosely untangling the snagged ends.
Bard looks up at him blearily after swallowing some cold medicine with a grimace. “Maybe. But I’m not very sexy right now.”
Bofur snorts, because it’s absurd. Bard is, by default, sexy. And on top of that, he really does love to take care of him, whether or not sex itself is involved. It’s nice to throw himself into it, without the kids being there and needing to be taken care of, too. In some ways, it feels like his best and truest state of being: giving Bard whatever he needs. He smiles softly, thumbing over the cut of Bard’s cheek bone as he reminds him, “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re always sexy. Plus, I sort of like you all vulnerable like this. You’re cute when you sneeze.”
Bard smiles a somewhat delirious smile, flinching as thunder rattles outside, the sky dark where its visible through the windows. “What in the hell did I do to deserve you?” he asks then, throwing an arm around Bofur’s waist and pulling him into bed alongside him, still surprisingly strong for s sick-person. “You’re not annoyed?”
Bofur kisses Bard’s sweaty brow. “Babe,” he says, loving the way Bard tenses and squirms at the word, always delighted to be referred to with terms of endearment. “Why the fuck would I be annoyed to spend a rainy day in bed watching bad TV with the man I love? No kids, no deadlines? Plus, m’sore from hiking yesterday. I wouldn’t have done much anyway, even if you were in tip-top shape.”
Bard mumbles wordlessly, and hides his face in Bofur’s neck. “God. you’re too good for me. I’m a fragile old man. I don't deserve someone like you.”
“Stop!” Bofur wheezes through a gale of laughter. Bard is funny when he’s feverish. “You’re like, five years older than me. You're not old.”
“I’m ancient,” Bard groans, rolling onto his back. “I feel ancient. You’re a hot rockstar.”
“What are you talking about?” Bofur cackles. “M’not a rockstar. I’m a guy who plays in bands sometimes. It’s different.”
“You look like Chris Cornell,” Bard announces, making a face and scrubbing his hand over his frowning mouth before sneezing again. “Did you know he was my hall pass, with my wife? Hers was Angelina Jolie,” he says, blowing his nose in one of the tissues Bofur brought him. “Good taste.”
“Hall pass? Are those like, the person you’re allowed to fuck without consequence when you’re in a relationship?” Bofur asks, quirking up an eyebrow and shifting closer to Bard until their bodies are flush under the covers, totally undeterred by his germs.
“Uh huh,” Bard tells him, reaching out and smoothing the tip of his mustache between his fingers.
“Hmm. Who’s your hall pass now? Did I scratch the Chris Cornell itch or is he still your main man?”
Bard smiles faintly. “You’re my main man,” he says, voice hoarse and tattered. “I don’t really want to think about anyone but you fucking me right now, to be honest. What about you?” he asks, rubbing his fever-hot face into Bofur’s neck. The sweet, raw honesty of it makes Bofur’s heart clench up, his stomach dropping like a skipped stone as he grins helplessly into Bard’s hair.
Then he tries to think if there’s anyone—any celebrity, any weird high school crush, any girl who got away— that he’d want permission to fuck if the opportunity arose. But all it takes is a few moments to realize that he, too, doesn’t want to think about sleeping with anyone else. “Just you,” he promises, kissing Bard’s temple, licking the salt of his sweat from his lips as he pulls away. “You handsome devil.”
Bard beams, clearly satisfied with his answer. “We’re gross,” he says. “But mostly me. I’m disgusting right now. I feel like I have cotton in my head. I hope you don't get this.”
Bofur fishes the remote out of the sheets and clicks the TV on, wondering if their cabin has cable. “Oh I will, inevitably,” he sighs with mock regret. “I can’t not kiss you. M’gonna lick up your germs. It’s just gonna happen.” Bard gasps and covers his mouth, eyes dark and horrified over the shape of his hand, and Bofur grins manically before tugging his wrist away and laying wet one right o his lips. “See? Tomorrow I’ll be talking nonsense and need the spicy garlic honey soup.”
“You’re awful,” Bard says, turning his head to cough before recovering and chasing Bofur’s lips, kissing him right back, soft and sweet and terribly warm. “I love you.”
“I love you back,” Bofur says, licking his lips because he really is committed to the inevitability of getting this illness. He guesses that’s what being sort of married means: sharing colds. Sharing everything. Maybe he’s weird, but he fucking loves it. “Happy anniversary,” he adds with a crooked smile, winking, and Bard laughs but Bofur hopes he knows how much he means it. The wind is howling outside and the rain is coming down so hard he suspects it could be hail, and as Bard knocks out on his chest a few minutes later when the cold meds kick in, he's so insanely glad they’re not out there in the cold, fishing or trying to build a fire or whatever. He buries his nose in Bard’s dirty hair and inhales, deciding the second day of their anniversary trip is pretty ideal, too.