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Kurt’s fever peaks at 102.3 just before ten p.m., and Dave watches the thermometer with the kind of hollow dread that has no useful outlet.
He’s changed the pillowcase twice. Switched out the damp t-shirt Kurt slept in for a soft, oversized one from Dave’s own drawer. He’s fluffed every blanket, pulled the curtains closed, dimmed the lights, and then sat, useless, watching Kurt shiver in slow-motion misery.
Now he stands in their tiny kitchen, barefoot in the flannel pajamas Kurt got him for Christmas last year—their first one together—stirring soup. A small smile crests, everywhere he looks, Kurt is in the kitchen, curated down to the brass-finished ladle hanging from the rack like an art piece. Dave knows he’s not the greatest cook, but he makes up for it by doing the dishes; it works for them and helps balance household responsibilities while they finish their last year of school. The canned chicken noodle soup he found buried in their pantry feels sacrilegious, compared to what Kurt would fix him if he were sick, but it’s all he has, and he’s doing his best.
Behind him, the kettle begins to shriek softly.
He methodically pours the hot water into the speckled gray mug Kurt uses for his writer’s block tea, and drops in a lemon and ginger root sachet. Two teaspoons of honey. A third one because Kurt always makes a face on the first sip, and no one deserves that when they’re sick.
The soup is ladled into a matching bowl, wiped carefully at the rim, and placed on a tray beside the tea and a few crackers that Dave arranged in a perfect, fanned-out circle like a damn charcuterie board. Stuff like this matters to Kurt—it makes him happy— and, has Dave mentioned he’s freaking out? He’s never taken care of anyone this sick, and he’s never tried so hard in his life to get something this simple exactly right.
In the bedroom, Kurt makes a soft sound—a groan muffled into blankets—and Dave nearly spills the tea in his rush to get to him.
Kurt looks even worse than before.
His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in surprisingly little curls. His eyes are half-lidded, ringed with shadows, and his nose—usually straight and perfectly adorable—is red and painfully blotchy.
But his mouth twitches into a faint smile when he sees Dave hovering in the doorway like a Saint Bernard with a serving tray. “You look awful,” he says, trying to be funny, but it comes out hoarse and scratchy. “Is that… Is that food?”
Dave sets the tray down on the nightstand, sits carefully on the edge of the bed, and brushes the backs of his fingers over Kurt’s cheek. “Fuck,” he mutters almost in a whisper. “You’re burning up, babe. But yes… I made…I opened soup. But when I poured it into the pan, I thought about how much I love you, because that’s what grandmas always say to do, right? Even… though… even though technically I didn’t make it.”
Kurt just stares at him in wonder; he’s so cute when he’s rambly. “Honey… it was made with love. Doesn’t matter how. Thank you.” Kurt suddenly yanks the covers over his face, sneezes three times, pulls them back down, huffs a wheezy little laugh, and then winces. “Ow. That hurt.”
“I know, babe. I know.” Dave leans in and presses a soft kiss to Kurt’s temple. His lips come away hot and damp. “I hate this. I hate seeing you like this and not being able to…do something.”
“You are doing something,” Kurt whispers, letting his eyes fall closed. “You’re bringing me soup and kissing my forehead like a Jane Austen heroine.”
Dave snorts, almost embarrassed, but he doesn't pull away. “Just let me take care of you, okay?”
“You’re very cute and oddly sexy, all flustered like this,” Kurt mumbles. “You should panic more often.”
Dave bellows a short laugh and shakes his head at Kurt. “I’d rather find other ways for you to find me attractive, thank you very much. I’m really worried about you.” He slides a hand under the blanket and wraps it around Kurt’s wrist, feeling the flutter of his pulse there. Steady. Too fast. But steady. “Come on, let’s see if we can get a bit of this in you. You haven’t eaten in like 18 hours.”
—
He washes the soup bowl in the sink. Refreshes the tea. Rotates cool washcloths on Kurt’s flushed forehead when the fever spikes again around midnight. Rubs his back when the coughing keeps him from sleeping. Hums softly, low and tuneless, when the medicine kicks in and Kurt shivers through his sweat.
By 3:07 a.m., they’re both in bed.
Kurt is curled on his side in a clean t-shirt, freshly changed pajamas clinging to damp skin. Dave helped him undress when the sweat became unbearable, and helped him step under the warm water of the shower when Kurt was too dizzy to stand on his own. He dried him gently, whispered little phrases of affection into his hair, and guided him back to sit in the chair, so he could change the sheets, then helped him into bed.
Now, Dave can hear the washer churning as he leans against the headboard, legs stretched out under the blanket, one arm wrapped securely around Kurt who curled up into his side in his sleep a little while ago, and with his other, he’s reading a book on his iPad for one of his classes and checking Kurt’s forehead every twenty minutes or so. Still warm, but not scalding like earlier.
*
Kurt stirs faintly, breathing shallow, and blinks his eyes open, like he’s surfacing from the bottom of a bottomless, sweaty, yet still chilly, ocean. His throat is raw, but not sandpaper anymore. His limbs ache, but not like before. The light from the ensuite casts a glow across them. He watches Dave for a minute, his brow furrowed with quiet focus. His eyes are fixed on his book, but there’s no mistaking how tired he is. “You look like you’re on a stakeout, surviving on caffeine pills and adrenaline,” Kurt murmurs, voice raw but faintly amused.
Dave glances down at him, his mouth tugging into a small, weary smile, happy to see him awake, and hints of more vitality in his face. “I’m keeping watch.”
“Over me?” He puckers his lips and looks touched by the gesture.
“Over everything.”
Kurt blinks. “So dramatic, darling.”
“I’m dating you. I’ve adjusted to expectations.”
Kurt laughs hard—just once—but the sound turns into a cough. Dave shifts instantly, helping him sit up, guiding the mug of water to his lips with one hand while the other rubs slow circles into his back.
When Kurt sinks back down again, groggy and shaky, he whispers, “I love you.”
“Love you, too, babe.” Dave brushes a hand across his sweat-damp temple and leans down to press a kiss on his forehead. “I think your fever broke.” He sighs almost in relief. “You’ll… I mean, I hope you’ll feel better soon.”
Kurt hums. “It’s because you’re here. Thank you for taking care of me, honey.”
“No place I’d rather be. Think you’re well enough to taste my rehydrated soup round two?”
Kurt smiles, but his eyes fall closed again. “Only if you keep fussing over me with that tragic, tender expression.”
“I do not have a tender expression,” Dave huffs. “You take that back! What would the team say?”
Kurt manages a squeak that was supposed to be a giggle. “You have such a tender expression,” He hums again sleepily, curling into him. “It’s disgraceful for a right guard of your caliber. But too damn bad, you're keeping it.”
“Whatever makes you happy.” Dave grins and holds him tighter, tucking the blanket around him like he might slip through his grip otherwise. “You’re safe,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And Kurt, heavy-lidded in the comfort of being cared for, believes him without question.