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They don’t bother checking the weather anymore.
Bobby knows it’s below fifty degrees when he wakes up with his hand all cramped to hell, pulsing pain from his fingertips all the way up to his neck until it hurts to even breathe.
Luke knows it’s humid when his knee clicks at every stretch and step, and it takes him a few seconds longer to shift because his limbs forget what position they’re supposed to be in.
Willie knows it’s about to rain when his vision turns to static and his stomach revolts and his head explodes in unimaginable pain.
Thunderstorms leave them all shaking, but Bobby personally thinks that’s just because they all remember the fear of sleeping soaked under a tree and praying the lightning wouldn’t strike them.
They have a house now, with beds and blankets and food, and Reggie does these intricate drawings of the sky each morning and pastes them on the fridge for everyone to see, and they don’t have to worry about being blasted by electricity or starving on the side of the road or being beaten to death by angry wolves three times their size (their nightmares might say otherwise, but they know they don’t have to worry about it), but that doesn’t make the weather stop changing. And it doesn’t make the changes hurt any less.
Luke and Willie are already in the kitchen, gobbling down bacon and pancakes someone made, when Bobby shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing blearily at one eye with his good hand. “Morning!” Luke calls to him with his mouth full. “Come eat!”
Bobby makes a face. “Not hungry.”
The truth is, he feels weak with hunger, but his throat sort of hurts, and his stomach isn’t upset, per se, but he’s aware of it in a way he wouldn’t be if nothing were wrong, and his hand is starting to ache, just enough to pull his focus from everything else. If he had less pride, he’d turn around and go back to bed.
Luke eyes him curiously over the cup of juice he’s chugging, but doesn’t say anything. Willie beckons him over, and tugs Bobby’s head close to nip at his ear when Bobby reluctantly slumps into the chair next to him. He won’t admit he leans into it a little.
The door to the back garden blows open with a gust of winter wind as Flynn comes into the kitchen, Reggie bounding happily along at her heels. Bobby hunches over in his seat, shivering madly just from the quick exposure to the outside air. He stretches his bad hand reflexively and almost whimpers.
“Bejeezus, it’s cold!” Flynn announces, shedding her coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. “Ooh, who made bacon?”
“Alex, I think?” Luke offers, mouth once again stuffed with meat. “We didn’t ask, we just took some.”
Willie asks Flynn if there are any plans for the day, and Flynn starts to say something about ice fishing before she has to tug Reggie’s front paws off the counter by the scruff of his neck, and Reggie’s whining cuts through Bobby’s temples like a pick until he can’t worry about keeping up appearances anymore; he just has to lay his head down on the table and squeeze his eyes shut.
He’s got a headache now. And okay, maybe he’s actually had a headache this whole time and was trying to pretend otherwise, but now it’s throbbing too steadily to ignore. His stomach and throat still hurt. His hand is really starting to ache now.
He can’t stop tears from springing to his eyes when Willie’s voice says, low and gentle in Bobby’s ear, “Hey, man, you okay?”
He swallows painfully, bites out, “Cold.”
Willie hovers a hand lightly over Bobby’s back. “Cold as in ‘you are…’ or cold as in ‘you have a…’?”
Bobby shivers, curling into himself tighter, which he thinks answers the question just fine.
“Yo, what’s up with Bobby?” Flynn says loudly, and Bobby blushes so hard from the attention he’s certain he’s going to be sick.
But then he breathes in the scent of his Alpha and his stomach calms as Luke circles the table to crouch down next to Bobby’s seat. Luke tangles a hand in Bobby’s hair and tugs just enough to lift Bobby’s head from his folded arms. He noses at Bobby’s neck and demands, “Tell me what you need.”
Bobby huffs out a breath. If he were the same person he was three years ago, he’d snap back, storm out, maybe even bite Luke just to make a point. But he’s part of a pack now, and he knows better than to disobey a direct order, especially not when he feels crappy enough as it is. “Think I’m sick,” he admits quietly. “Just the weather.”
Luke hums. “Back to bed?”
“Please.”
“Good boy, come on.” Luke must physically lift Bobby out of his chair, because the next thing he knows, he’s standing, with no memory of telling his legs to make that happen. He’s somewhere between dizzy and just out of it, but he still manages to catch Luke and Willie trading meaningful looks over his head, and Flynn repeats, more gently this time, “Is he okay?” If someone responds, Bobby doesn’t hear it.
His bed, a simple twin mattress with no frame that’s sometimes the best thing that’s ever happened to him and sometimes so comfortable he prefers to sleep on the floor, envelops him with open arms, like it was just waiting for him to throw in the towel and return to it.
He figures he’ll nap here for a couple hours, just until his insides scrape up enough warmth to feel whole again, and then he’ll go back out, apologize to the pack, offer to help with whatever they’re up to today to make up for his lazy, miserable morning. He expects, at the very least, to be left alone while Luke and Willie return to their breakfast, and take Reggie ice fishing, and do whatever else will make them happy, because they know Bobby’s safe now, that a cold and the cold won’t kill him, that they don’t have to spend every minute by his side just to make sure he makes it to the next one.
He shouldn’t expect that, and he shouldn’t be surprised when Luke and Willie climb into bed on either side of him. He starts to push himself up, to protest, but Willie’s already shifted to his wolf form and curled up at Bobby’s feet, warming him with his soft fur, and Luke pulls Bobby back down onto the mattress, arms wrapped around him.
“Just sleep,” he whispers, nosing at Bobby’s neck. “We’ve got you.”