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Eddie’s immune system is shot to shit. Has been since March of 1986. When he had awoken after his little stint in the Upside Down, it was to patches of scars, a missing nipple, and a brand new kidney. Turns out, that when alternate dimension bats chew you to bits and pieces and you’re helpless against them, they bite a little further than you could imagine. The ones that attacked his torso took a little more than necessary. Though, it wasn’t what caused him to get a kidney transplant.
No, in fact, he only has a brand new kidney because his body was fighting against the skin grafts and other surgeries. His downstairs business—the bladder and one kidney—were compromised. Luckily, his bladder was able to heal. But the scarring on his left kidney was too severe to come back from.
Hence, one new kidney.
The downside to this transplant, though, came in the form of one prescription drug. The immunosuppressant. A bunch of little capsules that he takes daily; in the morning and at night. And, get this, they’re forever pills. Meaning, they follow him to the day he dies. But knowing his luck, he’ll be up there arguing with God, one palm full of pills, and a glass of water in the other.
Surgeons and doctors told him that the suppressants were going to compromise his immune system. They were going to make him more vulnerable to infections and illnesses. And he’d been mostly careful in his life so far. If he catches a cold, he stays home and rests. If somebody he knows gets sick, he stays far away.
Though, when you’re a grown adult with a husband who works around snotty children all the time, the illnesses come whether you like it or not. It started with Steve getting pretty damn sick, knocked down by the yearly flu season. Which, granted, Steve had received his vaccine—but even then, the strongest still can be K.O’d.
Steve’s sick state is…well, less than ideal. Eddie loves him to bits and pieces, but man is his husband a miserable thing when he gets ill. Like a desperate wet cat in a thunderstorm. Mewling and rolling about and picky to a fault. So, Eddie did the logical thing (admittedly, the dumbest), he took care of Steve. Hand fed him spoonfuls of soup. Draped a washcloth on his heated forehead. Changed out his puke bucket. Ran lukewarm baths and did the laundry and tucked Steve in and kissed his forehead and…ran himself dry.
The karma is Eddie gets sick now.
It’s only a few days after Steve is able to return to work. When he’s been fever free for forty-eight hours, that Eddie gets severely sick.
We’re talking many trips to the bathroom. Heat shivers like nothing else. Sweat stains and chilled bones and clicking teeth. Heavy chest and congested nose and an appetite the size of Rhode Island.
When Steve comes back from work, it’s a Friday, he comes through just in time to hear Eddie dry heave into the toilet for the—give or take—eighth time that day. Did he mention that it’s only four? Has he said that he hasn’t had anything to eat except for toast this morning, some that Steve made before he had to leave? Steve’s class starts at eight. He eats at six.
Immediately, Eddie hears the rush of heavy footsteps clamber down the hallway. Skittering into their bedroom. Practically sliding into the tiled, small bathroom. A hand carefully bunches up his hair, ties it back loosely—just enough so it’s out of the way. And another runs up and down his spine in long stripes. The t-shirt Eddie is wearing gets stuck a few times with the movement of Steve’s hand, due in part to the tacky sweat on his back, and also because Steve moves his hand anxiously. He’s an anxious guy when the people around him aren’t doing too hot.
With his last round of dry heaving, Eddie spits into the toilet bowl, reaches up and clumsily flushes the toilet, and then settles loose on the floor. Collapsed halfway on the toilet’s seat. His butt sat on his folded legs. He sighs.
“Oh, baby,” Steve coos above him. “Baby, why didn’t you say you were sick? I would’ve stayed home with you.”
Eddie’s voice is raspy and exhausted when he speaks. “Didn’t know,” he says, “started after you left.” A chill runs up his arms and he full body shivers with it. “Was gonna call, but I knew you were excited to see your kiddos again.” He shrugs. “I can manage for a few hours.”
“Yeah, but you’re miserable,” Steve relays, as if Eddie wasn’t aware. He’s very much aware. Too aware, actually. But he lets Steve make a fuss. “Okay, uh, okay plan. I’ll run a bath for you and I’ll—I’ll, fuck, I’ll make you that chicken broth that you like. And I can change out our bedding while you relax in the tub and I can—“ He stops to swallow. His hands flap at his side. Steve never does well when Eddie gets sick, he immediately goes high strung and scrambled.
With a weak hand, Eddie reaches out and soothes his palm down Steve’s calve. “Honey,” he whispers, coaxing. Steve’s breath is heavy, yet short. And his eyes are darting when they finally look at Eddie. “Honey,” he repeats. “It doesn’t help me when you get worked up. One step at a time, alright?”
“Right,” Steve mutters shortly, “right, you’re right.” He flutters out of Eddie’s space. Instead, he leaves the room. Eddie hears him shuffling about their bedroom, changing the sheets. And then he retreats back into the hallway, to the linen closet for a towel. (Eddie knows him a little too well some days. Especially on high strung days.) Then, he’s back in the bathroom with new clothes and a towel. Just in time for Eddie to be up off the floor, a cup of mouthwash swirling around his tongue. Steve’s talking a mile a minute when he comes back in. “Okay, so I got clothes and a towel. And my phone is on the charger so that I can call your doctor just in case things get really bad. And I—Honestly, I already texted him and he said to just take a couple tablets of Zofran for the nausea. Also, I checked the fridge while I was putting away my shoes—I forgot to take them off, sorry about the little bit of mud by the door—but I couldn’t find any of the bay leaves for that broth. So, I hope it’s okay that the chicken broth is a little bland. Actually—“
He spits out the mouthwash, holding back his laughter. Eddie’s not sure if the rambling is something Steve picked up from Robin or if it’s something associated with his anxiety. Honestly, if he allows himself to think about it, it’s probably a bit of both. But he watches Steve leave the room again. His mutterings about the space are loud to his ears.
“—God, we have like no seasonings,” is what Eddie picks up on when he exits the bathroom. Steve continues, “And the pot I need is in the sink. I’ll do the dishes and then I’ll make the broth and…Well, no, if I make the broth in the smaller pot, then he can eat while I clean. But what if he needs me while he’s eating? I can’t be in a different room when he needs me. What if he gets sick on the couch while I’m cleaning and I don’t hear him and then he’s too tired to clean himself up and then he’s just sitting there and then—“
“Steve,” Eddie calls from the kitchen entryway. He’s stood still in front of the open pantry door. Hands nervous at his sides. Eddie’s never actually been a witness to the rambling before. It’s usually that Steve stays stuck in place, eyes far away, head full of a thousand thoughts that he needs Eddie’s help to parse through. The thoughts don’t typically all leave his mouth at once, though. It’s a little bit concerning. “Baby, I need you to calm down. How about you draw me a bath? Help me wash my hair, because I think I got a little bit of puke in the ends. And then, we can order Chinese food or something? I’ll just get plain white rice.”
Instead of saying anything, Steve nods. Eyes not exactly far, but still somewhere distant. Yet, he crosses the room anyway. A hand to Eddie’s forehead. The other on his chest. Then, he mutters, “You’re burning up. Let me grab the Tylenol.”
“I already took some, Stevie,” Eddie says. “I just need you to run me a bath, please.” He reaches up for the palm on his chest, squeezes, and holds tight to it as he drags them back to the bathroom. Without much prompt, Eddie slips out of his dirty, sweaty clothes. And with a silent demeanor, unusual for somebody like him, gazes on as Steve patters about—bending over to turn the knob to warm, going to the sink’s cabinet for the bottle of lavender soap, reaching up on the shower shelf for the hair products. And for the first time since Steve got home, he goes completely quiet, now sitting on the lip of the tub, hands out in silent offering for Eddie’s. Which he takes with a soft hold and allows himself to be maneuvered into the water.
He lets Steve pour a cup of water over his hair. A hand settled on the side of his neck. Washcloth on his forehead. Eddie relaxes into Steve’s gentle touches, for once today, the idea of being sick dissipates from his mind.
It’s not even ten minutes into the bath that Steve speaks up again.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
Eddie opens his eyes, not even realizing that he closed them. Steve’s hands just feel that good. “Why are you sorry?” He asks genuinely.
Steve shrugs. “For getting all overbearing and whatever. It’s hard to—“ Sometimes, it’s difficult for Steve to find his words, the emotions. Always has been a bit of a thing for him, but Eddie never minds. In fact, he kind of adores watching Steve work his way through his thoughts, actively seeing in real time as the sensations click for him. “—It’s hard to see you sick. Especially when I know that it’s because of my bug that I had. And, you know, considering the bullshit back in Hawkins.”
“Hey,” Eddie says softly, “don’t say it like it’s exclusively your fault.” He rests his left hand over Steve’s own. His skin is soft under Eddie’s palm. The heat radiating from him is grounding. “I made the decision to help you. And it wasn’t something you just decided to bring home from work. It’s okay. Just the flu,” he tries to reassure.
“But what if you get sicker than I did? Like…So sick that we have to take you to the hospital and then you’re there for several days and the bed is empty of you and I—“
“Stevie,” he cuts in. “Honey, you need to breathe for me, alright? I’m right here. And, yes, I’m sick and miserable. But it’s just the flu. I know what it is, you know what it is.” He takes a deep breath, it mingles with Steve’s own stuttered inhale. “If something happens, we contact my doctor. Remember why I get sick easily, baby. It’s just the suppressants doing their job, nothing else. We’ll be alright.”
Steve nods, going completely quiet. Almost still with it.
“What’s on your mind, baby?” Eddie questions.
“I—Do you even like it when I’m the one taking care of you? Like I get when Wayne does because he’s all calm and collected about it, but.”
Eddie soothes his hand up to Steve’s left forearm. Fingers tapping, waiting for Steve to completely look at him. When they lock eyes, he states firm yet soft, “I love it when you take care of me. You make sure I have and get everything I need. There’s nobody else that I’d rather have here with me.”
“Even when I can’t shut up about what needs to happen? Even when my brain goes a mile a minute because I’m just…scared?”
He nods subtly. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he whisper-rasps. “I feel so loved when you take care of me. Because you actually care. It’s hard for both of us when I get sick, I understand that.”
Steve nods back at him. Teeth sunken into his bottom lip. “Is it weird to say that I love taking care of you? Like it makes me feel useful to help you out?”
“Not weird, just welcomed,” Eddie assures. Because that’s the beautiful truth.
A few moments of silence lull between them. The washcloth goes a little cold against Eddie’s skin and he senses the prickling of shivers mingling under his skin. “Help me out of the tub and just lay with me in bed for now? I’m not hungry yet.” Steve bounces back into action. At the snap of fingers, ready to tend to anything Eddie needs of him.
And when they’re back in bed, Steve’s ruffled feathers finally flattened back to his body and Eddie’s fever dropping a single degree, Eddie is content. He lays on his back with Steve curled on his left side. Their legs tangled with each other. A palm heavy on his t-shirt clad stomach. Eddie’s own toying with Steve’s hair. The shirt is stuck to him from the VapoRub that Steve applied.
It’s warm in their room. Radiator on and lowly humming. Curtains closed so that it’s dark, though lit by Steve’s bedside lamp. Eddie’s got his own bucket settled on the floor, just in case. A sleeve of saltine crackers on his table. Poncho is curled up by his feet, purring incessantly, fur shifting and tickling his soles.
This treatment is one of a million reasons why he adores the man he married. “I love you, Steve. You take good care of me; you should know that,” he mutters into the soothing silence.
Instead of receiving an answer, Steve’s snore is muffled into Eddie’s shoulder. Puffing in warm bursts against his neck. He shifts his hand to press between Steve’s shoulder blades. And smiles a little to himself when Steve shuffles in impossibly closer. He feels like crap, that’s pretty hard to miss. Though, he’s comfortable. Comfortable enough that he can slip into a peaceful, syrupy, boneless sleep.
His immune system is shot to shit. But the love that fills his soul sure isn’t.