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Lucy’s sick.
She felt it coming on towards the end of her shift yesterday, the scratchy throat, the little cough at the back of her throat, the extreme exhaustion. She came home from work, went straight to bed without eating dinner and barely changing out of her clothes, and didn’t even startle when Tim came in late from a Metro op.
When she wakes up the next morning – New Year’s Eve - she’s just as exhausted despite the good night’s sleep she’s had, her throat is actually sore now instead of just scratchy, she feels congested, and the cough has picked up momentum. She feels warm, but she’s not sure if she has a fever or she’s just overheated from sleeping so long under the thick blankets she had piled on in the middle of the night. She feels Tim behind her, hears him breathing and knows he’s still asleep, so she gets up and heads to the bathroom. As she splashes water on her face, she decides she could do with some more sleep, but she should put distance between her and Tim in case, by some miracle, he hasn’t already contracted what she has.
Hunger hits her suddenly and her head throbs, but all she wants to do is sleep. She momentarily wonders if she should grab some toast or something but she goes to the couch and lies down and falls back asleep after just having enough energy to pull a quilt over her from the back of the couch because now she’s freezing. It’s not a fever, she reasons with herself. It’s just cold out here in the living room.
Sometime later – she’s not sure how much later - she hears Tamara shuffle out of her room, preparing to leave the apartment. She hears Tim come out of the bedroom then and in hushed whispers she’s pretty sure she hears the two of them discuss in confusion why she’s on the couch, Tamara asking him teasingly what he did to make her mad and Tim scoffing at her accusation.
Then the door opens and shuts and Lucy she feels a presence in front of her, blinks open her eyes slowly to see Tim standing over her and watching her.
“Hey,” he says softly when he sees her eyes open. She clears her throat and a cough spills out so she turns her head away from him and he blinks at her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m just tired,” she tells him as her eyes flutter closed again. It isn’t a complete lie – she is exhausted.
“So, you’re sleeping on your couch?”
“I… feel like I’m coming down with something,” she admits, though she doesn’t really want to, because it’s only fair he stays away from her. Normally she’d be stubborn about admitting she feels crummy. It’s New Year’s Eve, and they have plans tonight. Nothing big, just a small gathering at Angela and Wesley’s – child friendly and everything – but she doesn’t want to miss out. It’s their first New Year’s as a real couple – last year, no one knew about them yet – and she’s been looking forward to celebrating together. They’ve both been working a lot of hours and she really wanted this time with him tonight. “Just a little touch of a cold,” she downplays it as best she can. “I didn’t want to get you sick. In case I might be coming down with something.”
He peers at her as he leans forward to brush her hair out of the way, feels her forehead and pulls his hand back immediately, having already felt enough. “You’ve got a fever.”
“No, I don’t,” she insists as her eyes drift shut again. “It’s just this blanket, it’s hot and I….”
She can’t say anything else, because she’s fallen back asleep.
When she wakes up later, she feels a little bit better (or at least, she’s convincing herself she does so she can rally for their plans that night) but her head is still pounding. She has an inkling that if she would just get up and get some painkillers she’d feel a lot better, but she makes no move to do so. Her hip also hurts from sleeping on the couch, and her hand is asleep from having it wedged under her head for so long.
She’s not sure what happened to Tim, but the apartment is quiet.
Lucy looks at the time on the clock – it’s after 1pm already. Maybe he went home to check on Kojo. Hadn’t they had plans today? She remembers they had talked about going out for lunch and a hike this afternoon with Kojo before the gathering tonight. Or maybe he’d left and gone home to avoid getting sick, if he’s smart.
She lies on the couch for a few minutes, letting her body adjust to being awake and trying to get a clear picture of how she feels when she decides she should probably get the aspirin and also, eat something. She’d gone straight to bed last night without dinner and at this point it’s probably nearing twenty-four hours since she last ate which is no doubt making the headache worse.
So she gets up and starts puttering around the kitchen, gathering the ingredients to make soup. She knows she has a can of soup in the cupboard somewhere – Tamara eats them all the time when she’s in a rush – but she doesn’t want the canned stuff, she wants comfort food and the only soup she ever wants when she’s sick is her nana’s chicken noodle recipe.
“What are you doing?”
She startles when Tim is suddenly behind her – where had he come from? Has he been here the whole time after all?
“I’m making soup.”
“Making it?” he asks, eyes wide in surprise as he watches her pull vegetables from the refrigerator and set them on the island. “Like, from scratch?”
“Yeah, it’s my nana’s recipe and it’s my favorite thing when I’m sick, so-”
“I’ll do it,” he says without hesitation, moving behind the island and ushering her out of the way, gently pushing her back towards the couch.
“You can’t…” she looks puzzled and she’s not sure if she’s just delusional from the sickness or if she’s really hearing him right. She gives a little laugh of confusion. “You can’t make it, it’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
“You have the recipe, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“If I can read it, I can do it. I can read, y’know.”
She rolls her eyes, but truthfully, she’s too tired to argue with him so she shrugs, opening a drawer and pulling out the recipe card and putting it on the island. If all else fails, she knows there’s that can of soup in the cabinet somewhere. Maybe that would be fine, after all. She doesn’t really have the energy to cook. She heads back towards the couch and he clicks his tongue at her, causing her to look back at him.
He’s already studying the recipe card and even if this is a failure, god, she loves him so. “What?” she asks.
“I fixed up your room,” he tells her, glancing up from the recipe and nodding his head at the door. “Get some good rest in bed.”
She frowns at him and moves to her bedroom door to push it open further to see he’s changed her sheets, made up her bed, and set up a glass of water and a box of tissues on her nightstand along with some cough drops.
The bed looks so inviting, and she really wants to fall into it and curl up and sleep, but something is still fighting her. “We have plans tonight,” she says suddenly.
“No, Lucy, we don’t. Not anymore.”
“But I-“ she feels like she’s ruined both of their nights, now. “I’ll be fine. If I just take another little nap. And eat something. And I’ve got a good eight hours, I mean – we can get there as late as nine since It’s a New Year’s Eve party. Eight hours is basically a whole night’s sleep, so… I could be a whole new person by 9:00.”
“Lucy.”
She sighs, looks at him with big, sad eyes. “I don’t want to ruin your night, too. You should still go.” She knows normally, parties would probably not be the kind of thing he’d be longing to go to on his own but it’s just Angela’s house, and he always enjoys hanging out with Angela and their friends. He’s actually been looking forward to it as far as she can tell – at least, in that she hasn’t really had to twist his arm to get him to go. “Besides, we were supposed to bring the wine, and…”
“Believe me, there’s going to be plenty of alcohol without our wine.”
“You go,” she insists with a shrug. “I’m just probably going to knock out, anyway. I’ll take some Nyquil and be in bed by nine. And I don’t want to get you sick, so you shouldn’t be around me anyway, may as well be there. You should go have fun.”
He’s watching her carefully, concern lacing his features. “Just rest,” he tells her simply, going back to the recipe. “I’m going to make this soup. We’ll talk later.”
She wants debate it with him more, make sure he’s going to go without her, but the bed looks so inviting so she just nods, goes into her room, curls up and falls asleep.
She’s not sure how much later it is when she wakes up, but she can smell the soup cooking and immediately she recognizes that it smells just like her grandmother’s.
No way he actually did it.
It’s not like he can’t cook – she knows he can, he’s cooked many a night for her. But he’s not the type to follow a recipe to specificity and that’s the only way the soup turns out right. She knows. She’s messed it up several times by skipping an ingredient or not measuring exact.
She grumbles through her symptoms, gets up from the bed and leaves her room to see that Tim’s in the kitchen, wiping down the counter. She blinks her eyes at him, and he smiles with a look of tender concern on his face.
“Hey, how are you feeling?”
“A little bit better,” she says, wondering if it’s true or she’s just wishing it to be so, because she still feels like she wants to sleep another few hours. “I think. Remains to be seen how long it will last.”
“The soup’s ready if you’re hungry.”
She nods as she creeps into the kitchen to take a look in the pot, impressed still when she notices it looks exactly right, just like the way it looks and smells when she makes it herself, the same way it would look and smell when her grandmother would prepare it for her.
“You… made it,” she says in astonishment. “From the recipe.”
“Yeah,” he says, brushing right past her disbelief that normally he’d probably tease her about. “Here, sit. Let me get it for you.”
“I can get it,” she protests, even as he comes around to the cabinet and gets a bowl so that he can ladle the soup into it for her. She sits down at the island in resignation, waits for him to set the bowl down in front of her.
Blowing on it to cool it, she takes a bite, careful at first in case it’s too hot.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” he asks, suddenly alarmed and she adores how nervous he is to have made sure he did it right. “Does it taste wrong? I followed the recipe. I-”
“No,” she laughs at his concern, and her eyes are shiny with unshed tears. “It tastes exactly right. I can’t believe you did this.”
“I can’t believe you were about to try and make soup from scratch when you’re sick and can barely stand.”
She shrugs as she takes another bite. “I’ve always done it before,” she says, recalling the many times she’s felt sick and has puttered around in the kitchen making soup for herself. “I’ve never had someone take care of me before,” she admits softly. “I just usually take care of myself when I’m sick.”
“Well. You don’t have to, anymore,” he says softly and she looks up at him with love and warmth.
He chats with her companionably as she eats, she draws the line at letting him take her dish and insists she washes it herself, shooing him away from her as she goes to the sink.
It’s already four-thirty, she notices when she’s done in the kitchen. She should text Angela and tell her she’s not coming. As adamant as she had been earlier about being fine later, she knows there’s no way she can go to a party tonight. She didn’t even think she could keep her eyes open long enough to finish her soup, let alone get dressed and ready to go out and socialize and stay out past midnight. She also knows it wouldn’t be fair to expose everyone at the gathering to her germs, especially the baby. She thinks that should text Angela and tell her she’s not coming but that Tim still is, so that hopefully he’ll still go without her.
When she goes to get her phone, she gets distracted by all the notifications that have piled up all day as she looks for Angela’s text chain, and her eyes feel so heavy from looking at the screen. She’s finally feeling somewhat better with food in her stomach she drifts off to sleep in the quiet of her apartment, dozing off into nonsensical, choppy dreams.
The next time she wakes up, it’s late. Very late, she realizes.
She can tell it’s late because it’s dark now. She feels completely disoriented and looks around her room. Her phone that she’d had in her hand is on her nightstand, on the charger. Her water tumbler is filled. She’s under the blankets and it looks like the sheets have been straightened out around her rather than in the crumpled mess she’d fallen asleep in.
There’s light in the living room and she can hear the TV is on but turned to low volume. She wonders if Tamara is home – she’d had plans to go to a party with some friends – but she knows with everything in her that it’s Tim.
Tim, who should be at Angela and Wesley’s house right now.
Tim, who was never going to go to the party because she’s sick and he would never leave her here, sick and alone.
She should’ve known – and she probably did – that that would be the case, just as she knows if the roles had been reversed, she wouldn’t have left him to go to the party, either.
She hoists herself up and out of bed with a grumble, but notices some of the extreme exhaustion and the fog is gone. She wanders into the living room and sees him sitting on her couch, watching the TV. A closer look shows her he’s watching the festivities in Times Square and the countdown indicates they’ve got eight minutes until midnight.
How is it 11:52pm? Where had the afternoon and evening gone?
“Hi,” she says softly, and he turns to look at her, seemingly surprised to see her awake.
“Hey. I thought you were out for the night.”
“And I thought you were going to Angela and Wesley’s,” she says with a soft, teasing smile.
He gives her a look, a cross between being smug and being guilty. “Technically, I never agreed to go.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Really, Tim. Look, all you did was sit on my couch all night,” she says as she walks around the couch towards him. “You could’ve gone.”
“I wanted to be here. In case you needed anything,” he says simply and she feels her whole body fill with warmth and affection. “How you feeling?”
“Better, actually,” she says with a smile. “Maybe your soup did the trick.”
“Your grandmother’s soup,” he reminds her with a lopsided grin.
She laughs. “Well, I’d say you did a pretty good job with it. I guess all that Top Chef isn’t for nothing.”
He reaches out for her and she momentarily resists, worried about getting too close and getting him sick. He reads her mind as he always does. “It’s too late by now. If I’m going to get sick, I’m going to get sick. Especially after two nights ago,” he gives her a devious grin as they both recall what they had gotten up to and she blushes. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been very thoroughly exposed.”
She lets out a little snort, but can’t disagree, so she lets him pull her down onto his lap as he wraps his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry I ruined New Year’s Eve,” she says.
He hums into her hair. “You didn’t. It’s not your fault. And anyway, look - we’re still together at midnight.”
“Not for my lack of trying,” she teases and he laughs, nudging at her shoulder playfully. “It would’ve been great. I got this new this dress you were going to love, we could get a little tipsy, I was definitely planning to bring you home to bed and ring in the new year the right way.” He hums his approval of her ruined plans. “And instead, look at this. I’m a mess, I haven’t showered, I’m sure I smell, my hair is in knots, you can’t even kiss me at midnight because I’m sick, and you’ve been alone all night. What a romantic New Year’s Eve. They say the way you end the year sets the tone for the new year.”
He chuckles. “So? I see nothing wrong with this. We’re together.”
She turns to look at him as best she can from her position in his lap. And, maybe he’s right. They’re starting the year off together – just the two of them, him showing his love for her in so many ways, today. “That’s… incredibly sweet.”
“It’s true,” he insists into her shoulder as he places a kiss to it. “Look, I know this is our first, like, official New Year’s Eve together,” he says, “but I’m counting on an entire life with you, so… there will be more. And there’s going to be a lot more holidays and special occasions and plans that get ruined or go awry. It’s part of the journey. One day we can look back and laugh at all the ruined plans. In fact, they might even be the ones we remember the most.”
She chuckles, realizing he’s right – there are many more illnesses to be had and late nights on the job and injuries and arguments and children and pets and children’s illnesses to throw their best laid plans out of whack.
“Mmm,” she laughs softly. “Tell the grandkids about it,” she adds with a smile that he can’t see because she’s facing away from him, but she knows he can sense as he squeezes her waist.
“Right,” he says with an easy, knowing laugh. “One minute,” he adds, nodding at the TV and she notices the people in New York are preparing for the countdown, the timer ticking down the last minute of the year.
They watch the announcers get all excited that the moment has finally come, the crowd begins to count backwards from ten as the ball drops. Then all the couples in Times Square are kissing, one is accepting a ring, and everyone is screaming and yelling with the confetti flying. Tim kisses her on the cheek and squeezes her thigh and she hums into his touch.
“I love you,” she tells him.
“I love you too.”
“Well, that much has been made clear today,” she jokes softly.
“Just today?” he teases with a quirk of his eyebrows.
She laughs, but her tone is serious. “No. Not just today.” She turns to look at him and his eyes intense on hers. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, baby.”
A year ago, they had been so new into this relationship. They were barely at their first date, no one knew about them, and they hadn’t even slept together yet. And it’s not that she’s surprised they’re where they are now. She knew this is where it was heading, but she marvels at how much can change in a year, how this has been – without a doubt – the best year of her life. How she knows they’re both confident this is just the first of many years together.
“I already know your stance on resolutions,” she teases and can feel him roll his eyes. He’s never said as much, but she knows him, she’s completely sure he has some kind of rant about how resolutions are pointless and a waste of time. “But, humor me. I’m sick. Tell me one. Even if it’s something fun.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I resolve we should have more sex.”
“What,” she says with a surprised laugh, though she had been well aware something unserious was coming. “It’s not like we’re lacking in that department.”
“No, we’re definitely not. Which is why we should have more.”
“Tim,” she laughs, gently swatting at his arm to chastise him.
“I waited way too many years. We have to make up for lost time.”
She gives a playful roll of her eyes, but she enjoys the teasing. “God, you’re insatiable.”
“No,” his voice is deep and even through her sickness it sends a thrill down her spine. “I’m always very, very satiated. But okay then, less?” he teases.
“Well… no,” she realizes his point with a frown and a laugh. “More is better.”
“See?” she feels him trace a small pattern on her back. “And I want for you and me to…”
He trails off, almost as if the words have just left his mouth without permission and he doesn’t know if he should say whatever he’s thinking. She doesn’t have any idea what was about to fall from his lips, but she realizes it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Me too.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he counters.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I’m in. I want it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t know if his mind is thinking of them taking a step like living together or going so far as imagining a proposal or marriage or what, but she’s almost startled to realize whatever it is, she’s ready. Not only that, she wants it. Badly.
It’s late, but she’s slept most of the day and finds she’s not going to fall asleep again right away, so they eat a serving of soup at midnight and watch some mindless sitcoms on TV before Lucy tries to insist that he go home for the night.
She’s not surprised when he resists – she knew he would, but he says he’ll sleep on the couch. She argues with him about how he’s too tall for the couch, how it will hurt his back, counters she’ll sleep on the couch and he can have the bed if they change the sheets but he just ignores her and tells her to text Tamara so she’s not taken aback to find him on the couch when she comes home.
It's late, anyway, she figures, and he shouldn’t drive home this late, not on New Year’s when there are people out partying.
So, she watches him settle into the couch.
It’s going to be another good year.