Work Text:
The Sick Day Job
"Here," Eliot says, and sets a steaming cup of honey and lemon in front of her. "Drink this, it'll help your throat."
The mug is full of steaming water, thick slices of lemon and a good helping of local honey.
"Thank you," Sophie croaks, and wraps her hands around the big stripey mug gratefully, bringing it to her nose and breathing the citrus scented steam in. It helps, clears some of the stuffiness from her sinuses. A cough rattles through her, harsh enough to make Eliot wince in sympathy. It makes Sophie curl up, one arm around her ribs until the spasm passes.
The bin is almost full of tissues and he bends, ties the bag and slips a fresh one in. "Soup won't be long," he says. "Chicken noodle. I had it in the freezer."
She shifts like she's going to get up, and he frowns at her. "Stay there, I'll bring it to you."
"Thank you," she says, snuggling deeper under the soft cashmere blanket, eyes drifting closed. Her nose is red, lips chapped and the shadows under her eyes are darker than he's ever seen them.
He smiles at her, chest going soft and tender. The mug slips in her hand and he grabs it just in time, setting it on the side table, tugging the blanket up, because the big room is chilly, even with the heating on.
It's a nasty flu, and it's been through most of them. I got lucky, just a bad cold really, Eliot thinks, though the cough still hasn't quite left him. Hardison had mostly missed it, avoiding the mark that had given it to them in the first place. Parker had slept solidly for two days, then bounced back to her usual energetic self, leaving just Eliot and Sophie still feeling the effects.
He stifles a cough as he heads back to the kitchen. Think I need a mug of honey and lemon too, and maybe a bowl of that soup. The kitchen smells amazing as he steps through the door, giving the gently bubbling pan a stir before he lifts two deep bowls down from the cupboard. They're deep blue, with a soft seashell pattern, and he smiles at them, remembering the client who'd given the set to them after a successful job. It's a good memory, fills him with a sense of warmth and almost pride.
The soup is thickly dotted with veggies and pasta, bite sized chunks of chicken floating in the rich broth. It's fragrant, rich with garlic, and his stomach rumbles as he dishes up two bowls. Damnit, Hardison, he thinks as the noodles catch his attention again. They're shaped like Christmas trees and snowflakes, at odds with the rest of the soup. He shakes his head, and sets both bowls on a bamboo tray with spoons and two more mugs of honey and lemon.
Sophie stirs as he sets the tray down on the low table in front of the couch. "Is that a snowman? " she asks muzzily, blinking at the bowls. "Or am I seeing things?"
"Blame Hardison," Eliot says and passes her a bowl, along with a spoon. "His turn to buy the groceries this week."
She fishes one out with the spoon and chews it, slowly. "Least they're not orange flavoured," she mutters. One socked foot pokes from under the blanket, her soft cotton leggings tucked firmly under them.
Eliot shivers, a chill overtaking him. The soup helps, soothing his still sore throat, chicken slipping down easily. "Bad enough they're multi coloured," he says, with a sigh, and shakes his head, shifting a bit to get comfortable.
He's in thick flannel pyjama bottoms rather than his usual jeans, a soft and well worn henley on top. It's a cozy and comfortable outfit, but it's not the warmest thing he's ever worn.
"This is good," she says, nodding at the bowl. "Is it a new recipe? Tastes different than last time."
"No chili in this one." He turns and smiles at her. "Hardison objected to it, last time." He bites the head off a pasta snowman and sighs. "I might add double to the next batch," he says, in mock annoyance.
"Hmm, I'm not listening to him if you upset him like that." She reaches for the mug and sips the warm honey and lemon.
"Feeling any better?" He sets his empty bowl down on the tray and sits back, stifling a yawn. The sofa is warm and soft and comfortable, and with a warm meal in his stomach, he's feeling sleepy.
Sophie glances at him, shifting to tuck her feet under her. She flicks the blanket over his lap, covering his legs, reaching for the remote. "Another episode?" she asks, slowly and turns the big TV on the wall on.
There's a hundred things he should be doing, but he can't make himself move, not when she's looking at him like that. The TV show has become a guilty pleasure for both of them, something quiet and peaceful and safe that they can both share. "One episode," he says and tucks the cashmere throw more firmly around them, shifting a bit so her knees aren't pressing so firmly into his thigh. "Then I gotta clean the kitchen."
"I think Lady Mary gets a proposal in this one," Sophie mummers and sips her drink again, setting it back on the table.
"I'm sure she does," Eliot says, and covers his mouth to hide a yawn.
The theme tune plays, and he glances at Sophie, smiling softly, because her eyes are already closed. He fumbles for the remote, turning the TV off, dropping the room back into peaceful quiet, lit only by the soft, late afternoon light filtering in through the big windows. I should get up , he thinks, muzzily, eyes drifting closed.
Well maybe ten minutes won't hurt, he thinks and gives in.
They're still sleeping when Parker and Hardison return an hour later and he grabs a quick photo, smiling, before he closes the door and leaves them to the rest they need.