Chapter Text
For the record, he wasn't sick.
His body was just running at a higher temperature, his muscles moving at a slower pace, his nose not really working at all and his brain overworking and thus turning into an aching pile of mush. But these were not symptoms of sickness.
They were completely normal things that happened to him occasionally, mostly when seasons changed, and went away on their own. In a day or two. A week at most.
Now he just needed to convince the rest of the team of this.
"I'm not wasting my vacation days because you got me sick." Cho had said as soon as Jane coughed the first time and locked himself in Lisbon's office.
"Nope, nope, not today." Rigsby had walked backwards out the door and not been seen for the last two hours.
"You should see a doctor. Like right now." Van Pelt had said, her words slightly muffled behind the mask she had been wearing since he had first shown up.
"Doctors are a scam—" Jane had abruptly closed his mouth, and his eyes, as fine stinging mist materialized in front of his face. That had been the first time Van Pelt sprayed the sanitizer directly to his mouth. After the fourth time Jane had walked back to his sofa, sulking in peace.
It hadn't even been ten minutes of his slouching (he was NOT laying down because that is what a sick person would do) when two cool fingers pressed to his forehead. His eyes opened abruptly (he was NOT asleep, just resting his eyes) and met a concerned gaze.
"You're sick." Lisbon said softly. It wasn't a question and Jane was too tired to argue a statement. Instead, he kept quiet.
Lisbon straightened up and went back to her desk making Jane sigh in relief. If Lisbon gives in then the rest of the team will follow her lead.
"Here." He looked up to see she had walked back and was handing him a set of keys. Her house keys. He looked at her in confusion.
Lisbon sighed and crouched down next to him, her eyes level with his.
"Why don't you go back to my place, hmm? Jump into bed and I'll come tuck you in as soon as we're done here." Her eyes were still soft but her words were more a command than a request.
What is a sick man supposed to do when a gorgeous woman offers to tuck him in?
In twenty minutes, Jane was unlocking the front door to Lisbon's house. He had been here before a few times and had perused it heartily on each visit. But this time he had eyes for only one thing, the bed that had always looked so very inviting but had been strictly off-limits.
'I have her permission to sleep here.' He couldn't help but smile at the thought. He also couldn't help but rue the fact that he was too sick to enjoy this moment to the fullest. With the smallest of sighs, he fell asleep having only removed his jacket and shoes.
When he next woke up, it was to the smell of something warm and soothing. Teresa's face swam into view, her breath hitting his face as she hovered over him.
"You're beautiful." He whispered, his voice hoarse from sleep or sickness. She met his gaze for a second and a curious expression passed her face for a split second.
She moved back then, turning to drag a chair closer. "Can you sit up?" Jane did so with some difficulty while she hovered as if ready to catch him should he stumble. When he was settled in, she sat in the chair and brought to him a steaming bowl.
"Drink up, sick boy." He made a face, that was a ridiculous addressal. She smiled at him. She moved her hands forward again, urging him to take the bowl but he didn't move. "Jane." It was a warning but he didn't budge. "Of course you'd be a stubborn patient." She spooned up the soup and, after blowing on it a little, brought it to his lips. Dutifully, he drank it.
"I am a model patient."
"You refused to accept you were sick."
"I wasn't sick then."
"You fell sick in the ten minutes between Grace and my asking you?" Her hands paused, the full spoon just a breath away from his lips. He leaned forward to take it in.
"Mmhm. It snuck up on me in seconds."
"Rigsby fled the station four hours before that."
"It was barely two hours." He pouted, sealing his lips against the now lukewarm soup.
"It was four, perhaps more. You fell asleep for a while there." She pressed the spoon against his lips. He glared at her. "Don't be a baby."
"I'm full."
"You need to finish the whole bowl."
"I want to sleep now."
"Just a few more sips baby."
.
.
.
Baby. Baby.
Did fever make you hallucinate? Did excessive coughing harm the eardrums somehow? Had she just—?
Patrick looked at Teresa, at her slightly red cheeks and flushed neck. He opened his mouth but was forced to close it around a spoon hastily shoved in.
"Just a few more baby sips." She repeated herself, her eyes narrowed.
"If you insist." He smiled.
When he was done, she handed him the medicine and some water. She watched him swallow the medicine and he smiled cheekily, opening his mouth wide to show he had actually taken it, no cheating.
"Sleep now, I'll wake you up for dinner." She picked up the bowl and left the room.
For five minutes, he waited patiently. Another five, he waited impatiently. Finally, he gave up. "LISBON!" He shouted, or tried to. His dry throat made his shout die out midway in a fit of coughs. He was still coughing when a hand came up, rubbing his back to ease the hacking.
"Now what was that for? I was right outside, why did you exert yourself?" She scolded as she handed him a glass of water.
"I was waiting." He took a sip. "For you." Another sip. "But you were taking too long."
"What is it? What did you need? Is the bed comfortable, should I change the pillow?" He grabbed her hand to stop her tirade and make her look at him.
"You promised to tuck me in." He whispered.
"You're not a baby."
"Actually, I am a sick boy and a baby, as you called me in the last few minutes."
"I didn't call you baby. I called the spoon baby."
"The spoon will be happy to hear that, even though you are breaking a sick man's heart by saying so." He rasped. Her face softened.
"Rest, please, Patrick."
"Do as you promised."
She looked at him. He looked back, unabashed. He was sure the slight redness he could feel creeping up on his face was just the medications getting to work.
Teresa pulled up the covers over his body and gently tucked it around him. She adjusted the pillow and brought the bottle of water closer to him. She put his phone in reach. She bent closer to him.
"Call me when you need me." She looked him in the eye, staring until he nodded. "Good."
In one smooth motion, she kissed the top of his forehead, walked to the door and turned off the lights. "Get well soon. I'll be right outside." She closed the door behind her, leaving just a crack open.
Patrick resisted the urge to touch the place her lips had met his skin. He was burning up, his heart racing, and fingers drumming against his body. Too much energy for a sick person. In fact, he was certain he wouldn't be able to sleep anytime soon. He'd stay up for hours daydreaming about this moment and this hour and this whole day really.
(He was wrong, of course. He fell asleep almost immediately and kept sleeping for hours. He woke up just to have dinner and then slept again for a long time.)
(He wasn't entirely wrong though. Once he got better and left Teresa's place to go back to his own, he did spend hours every night daydreaming about that moment and that hour and that whole day and then some.)
(And so did Teresa. Actually, Teresa did a lot more in these hours as she watched Patrick sleep in her bed. But Patrick doesn't know all that.)
(You, dear reader, don't know all that. Yet.)
(Baby
steps...)