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"Stop waking me up in the middle of my naps," Bard croaks, tossing the pillow on the cold side of the bed across his face. It's past noon, possibly even three or four, and Bofur is standing in the doorway of the master suite wearing a massive smirk. At least it's the weekend — Bard's been sick for two or three days, a head cold turned flu, and he's not above calling in from Whole Foods tomorrow if he can't get some decent sleep today. "What do you want this time?"
"So polite," The shorter man chuckles, barely speaking above due to the condition of his lover's pounding headache. The black-out curtains make nothing but the whites of his eyes and the outline of his ushanka appear, and it'd be startling if Bard didn't already know Bofur wasn't a killer clown. Quite the opposite of a killer, but he was still a clown thinking Bard was waking up for another one of his useless pranks. "Come out here. Put a hoodie on, I have something to show you."
Bard groans, and pushes himself further down into the mess of blankets and covers, ignoring him completely. "When hell freezes over, sure. Au Revoir, husband-mine."
"No, seriously," The man complains, releasing his grip from around the door. He comes over and plops himself next to him on the mattress, causing it to squeak. He's wrapped up in his jack-o-lantern pajama pants and some metal hoodie, a band Bard couldn't give a shit about, and his grin is too big for this to be anything but immensely annoying. Bofur stands up on his knees, like a begging dog. "Babe," He mumbles eagerly, " come out here. Outside. Please. It's a surprise. I know you don't feel good but I just need you to see it, yeah?"
"You owe me coffee in bed in the morning," He finally says, sighing dramatically. "I don't see why you always find something interesting to show me when I'm tryin' to sleep."
Bofur jolts up and runs to the closet, retrieving yet another hoodie and tossing it to Bard across the room. It hits him right in the face, and he yawns before pulling it on, motioning to the door for Bofur to lead him to whatever the hell he's trying to show him. Possum on the porch, his band on the local telly channel, curiosities he'd discovered during his house cleaning and had to wake his very tired husband up for. But when he eventually makes it out, clutching his head, he realizes it's not anything he was expecting — it's a blanket fort, made just for him.
"Ta-da," Bofur grins manically, his arms spread out as he reveals the creation. It takes up the entire living room, a two-story compound fort made up of couch cushions, Tilda's old toddler mattress, hundreds of pillows and blankets, and is all centered around the TV, which is currently showing Moana and hiding a singing Bain. It's formed almost like a castle, save for the thrones and the dragon, and Bofur in chainmail guarding the Bowman gate. "Me and Bain and Tilda built it for you. Sigrid sends her regards, but it was a little too much for her."
Bard almost giggles, but his head hurts much, much too bad for that. "Ah," He coughs out, leaning into the warmth of Bofur's side, who clutches him close. The sunlight is bringing up all of his symptoms again, and he wishes nothing more for his soft bed and his husband's soft massages. But it's still sweet that he'd do this; it wouldn't hurt to explore just a little bit... "It's great. You three must have worked very hard on it."
"We did!" Tilda belts, her clump of hair poking out from the northeast corner of the catastrophe. "It's for you, Da! Are you still sick! Bofur says you are!" She shouts, and Bard winces, hiding his pained expression in Bofur's shoulder. So much for comprehending that he was, in fact, sick, and not just hiding away in the bedroom like a hermit.
Bofur strokes his hair back. "Shh, Tilds," He hushes, "his head hurts. You can show him the fort, but be a little quiet, 'kay?"
Tilda's face turns pale, and she crawls through the wasteland to come out the main entrance. Bard smiles weakly and leans down to the floor, bringing her in for a hug. "Thank you for the wonderful surprise. Could you give me the grand tour?"
She happily does so, and Bard makes his way through the catacombs. Christmas lights are hanging in the maze of dining chairs and soft blankets as carpet and Bain even has popcorn and Murphy in his fucking little TV room, a handful of which Bard takes willingly. He pokes his head out in a few moments, his lips turned up playfully, offering out his palm for his king to join him.
And then he yawns and sputters out a messy cough. "It's- great," He manages to praise, but Bofur just shakes his head, scooting his way into the fort entrance. He fusses at feeling his forehead, kissing it over and over again until Bard shoves him off. "Stop, hey, I'm fine. The fort is-" Cough. "It's excellent. Thank you."
Bard scrunches his face in, and his hair is falling out of the bun, four days unshowered with pink cheeks and snot crusted under his nose, but he's worth everything to Bofur like this. So much that he lets him take care of him, and these days it's not a chore but a genuine emotion, the swelling of love he gets from stuffy responses and hot foreheads and putting cold medicine on a spoon.
"I thought you might want somewhere different to sleep," Bofur admits shyly, scratching the back of his neck. "So we made this big nest. Me and the kids miss you."
"Oh my gosh," Bard laughs, a sweet sound to hear after these days of misery, and brings him in for a kiss, not caring the slightest that he's passing on this cruel virus. It's worth everything to Bard to see Bofur trying so hard to fix the little things, to make him smile when he feels so shitty. Just a little smile, just a tiny chore that would take hours to clean up. "I feel better already."
"Then let's watch this damned movie," Bofur grins, tossing him a fluffy knit blanket.
Bard accepts, and on hands and knees creeps into the pile of Bardlings and a smelly dog and cat, curling his body around his partner so that his head rests on his thighs. It's warm, so warm, the perfect place for rebooting his afternoon nap.
Glancing up at his metal head (too into Moana, and the shiny crab), Bard strokes his scruff, wrapping one finger around his mustache and twirling. Bofur leans down, pecking his forehead, close enough that Bard can whisper into his ear. "You know I'm going right to sleep."
"I know. I won't tell," He jokes, adjusting another blanket over both of them. "Sleep, babe. I'll let you know if the crab makes another appearance." Bofur pokes a kiss down into Bard's nose, safety, and serenity surrounding them amid their little haven. "I love you, feel better."
"I already am," He mutters, nuzzling into his lap. "Hate to admit it, but I think hell froze over."
"Well, we've got a few years until we make our appearance there, so hopefully they deal with the snow before then."
"I'm sure you'll change their minds," Bard yawns, clutching his hand over his mouth. "Goodnight."
"Sweet dreams," Bofur barely utters, his eyes too occupied with that damned shiny crab and his song, enough that Bard could let his eyes flutter closed. He fell asleep in the safe arms of his husband, surrounded by blankets and twinkling lights and a pile of kids, and woke up feeling as if he hadn't slept better in his entire life.