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There’s knocks on his door. That’s what Matt wakes up to. Well, wakes up again, unsure how long has passed since he fell back to sleep. He wants to go back to sleep again, but the knocking won’t stop. So, painfully, Matt walks to his door and finds Foggy on the other side.
“You look awful.”
“Thanks Fogs,” he grumbles. “That’s exactly the thing I wanted to hear from you.” He means it as a joke, but his voice sounds so tired he isn’t sure it comes out as such. He still gives him a small smile, to show that, as he lets him enter.
“Oh shut up, you’re still hot,” Foggy counters, with a laugh. His hand is placed on Matt’s cheek and he realizes something. He places it on his forehead, to confirm his feeling. “Shit, Matty, you’re burning up.”
“Told you I wasn’t feeling well this morning.” He did. The first time he woke up – with his alarm at 8 – he knew he wasn’t up to go to work. So, he sent a text to Foggy and went back to sleep. And now he’s here. In front of a very sick Matt.
“Yeah, well with you, we never know. ‘Not feeling well’ usually means you got beat up pretty bad the night before. You’re never actually sick.” He can actually recall the last time he was aware that Matt had been properly sick. They were in college. Matt had treated it like he was dying. Back then, Foggy only thought he was being a little bit dramatic for a simple seasonal flu. Now, he understands it better. With his heightened senses, Matt depends on them to live normally. When you’re sick, your nose gets stuffy, your body hurts and you don’t hear properly. And that must be awful in his case. “Go back to bed. I’ll make you something to help you feel better, okay?” he says to him, softly. And Matt really must feel like shit, because he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t argue. He just nods and walks back to his bedroom.
About an hour and a half later, Matt is woken up by Foggy once again. This time, he’s sitting next to him on his bed. “I made you soup. My mother’s special recipe. I swear, it can cure anything.”
And, after a couple of spoons, if Matt isn’t sure it can actually cure him of his flu, he’s still sure of one thing : that soup is doing some kind of miracle. Or maybe it’s Foggy’s presence and the fact he is being taken care of by someone he loves so much. “Thanks,” he tells him, once the bowl is empty. “I needed that.”
He must sound really sincere and vulnerable, because Foggy slides a hand against his jaw, caressing his face. He seems to debate silently, before speaking out. “What are the odds of giving me your virus if we cuddle in bed the whole day?”
“Very high,” Matt says honestly. And this idiot dares to pout at him, like a child. How can Foggy resist that face?
“Come on, move over, you big baby,” he concedes. He can’t resist him, that’s the problem. As Matt raises the cover, Foggy slides underneath it, making himself comfortable.
“I feel like you needed that more than me,” Matt teases, snuggling up against Foggy.
“Shut up,” he laughs as a response. He drops a kiss on the top of Matt’s head. “Maybe I did. I like taking care of you.”
“I like when you take care of me,” Matt says, raising his face in Foggy’s direction. He got that sweet smile and that twinkle in his eyes that Foggy knows all too well.
“Oh no, don’t you dare. You’re sick. No sexy time until you’re better,” he protests.
“You’re no fun,” Matt grumbles. But at least he got Foggy to cuddle him. That’s better than nothing. He knows how to pick those kinds of battles.