Work Text:
On request of stanley forbes on Ao3
Pip Fitz Amobi was stubborn—famously, annoyingly, relentlessly stubborn. Nothing could stop her once she’d set her mind on something. Nothing.
Except today.
Because today she’d caught a cold. And not the delicate, sniffly kind people wrote off as “just a slight one.” No, this one had staged a full hostile takeover of her body. Her throat was on fire, her nose was useless, and her head felt like it was stuffed with bricks.
She hated it. Hated being sick. Hated that she felt weak. Hated that she couldn’t power through it like she did everything else. And, most of all, she hated that Ravi Singh knew. Because if there was one thing Pip was absolutely certain of, it was this: Ravi wasn’t going to let her suffer in peace.
Currently, she was cocooned on her bed in what could only be described as a tragic excuse for a blanket burrito. She’d tried fighting the flu earlier—sitting at her desk, glaring at her computer screen like sheer force of will could cure her—but the blinking server lights blurred until she gave up and retreated back to her blanket fortress.
And then came the knock at the front door.
Pip groaned into the pillow. Wasn’t the universe already punishing her enough?
Muffled voices carried upstairs. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. She knew that voice. And worse—she knew the other one, too. Her mother’s. And was her mother seriously asking Ravi Singh to stay for dinner while Pip was literally dying upstairs?
The sound of footsteps on the stairs sealed her fate.
Three. Two. One.
Long-short-long knock. His signature.
“Go away,” Pip croaked, her voice raspy and pathetic even to her own ears.
The door creaked open anyway. Of course. And Ravi, being Ravi, didn’t just enter. He made a dramatic entrance.
“You mean welcome, my charming, amazing, ravishing boyfriend,” he announced, flashing a smirk so smug it should’ve been illegal.
“No,” Pip deadpanned, half-buried in blankets. “I mean get out, person-who-has-zero-respect-for-personal-boundaries.”
“Nice to see you too, Sarge.” He leaned casually against the doorframe, grin unwavering. “Wow, you really are dying.”
“I am not dying,” Pip rasped, glaring at him through fever-bright eyes.
“Tell yourself that,” he said cheerfully. “But yeah, you’re definitely dying. Should I start drafting your obituary? ‘Beloved detective, tragically taken down by common cold.’”
“If I die,” Pip muttered, her throat scratching with every word, “I will haunt you in your sleep.”
Ravi clutched his chest dramatically. “I’m touched. My ghost girlfriend. Sounds romantic.”
He took a slow, exaggerated step into her room. Then another. Until he perched himself right on the edge of her bed. And then, of course, he scooted closer.
Pip narrowed her eyes. “Ravi. Back. Off.”
“What, Sarge?” He widened his eyes innocently. “Can’t a pretty boyfriend spend some quality alone time with his girlfriend?”
“Not today you can’t.”
“But—”
“Seriously, Ravi.” Pip pulled the blanket tighter around her, shooting him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ll catch it.”
Ravi leaned back on her bed like he owned the place, hands folded behind his head, a lazy grin playing on his lips.
“You act like me catching your cold would be the worst thing in the world,” he said. “Personally, I think we’d look adorable sick together. Matching sniffles, synchronized coughing fits—couple goals, Sarge.”
Pip made a face at him from inside her blanket burrito. “You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you.” He winked. “I try my best.”
“Ravi,” she groaned, her voice gravelly, “I’m contagious.”
“So am I,” he said smugly.
Pip frowned. “What?”
“Yeah.” He shifted closer again, nudging her blanket with his knee. “I’m contagious. My charm? Highly infectious. No known cure. Once you catch it, you’re doomed.”
She blinked at him, unimpressed. “That was the worst line I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
“I’m grimacing.”
“Same thing. Your face does weird things when I’m around.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock whisper. “It’s called love, Sarge.”
Pip’s cheeks warmed—annoyingly so—and she immediately buried herself deeper into her blanket, muffling her reply. “I should’ve locked the door.”
“And miss this quality bedside service? Unthinkable.” Ravi reached over and tugged gently at the corner of her blanket burrito.
“Don’t you dare,” Pip warned.
“Relax,” he said innocently, though his grin betrayed him. “I was just checking your pulse.”
“With my blanket?”
“Exactly. I’m a very advanced doctor. I diagnose you with…” He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, dramatically serious for a moment. “…terminal stubbornness.”
Pip swatted weakly at his arm. “Get out before I sneeze on you.”
He tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Bold of you to assume I’d mind.”
“Ravi!”
“What? If it means I get to stay here with you while you’re weak and can’t chase me out with actual force, I’ll take my chances.”
“Pathetic.”
“Dedicated,” he corrected, smug.
The room was quiet again after their back-and-forth, Pip half-dozing in her blanket fortress, when the scent hit her. Something warm, savory, suspiciously homey wafted up the stairs. Her bleary brain took a few moments to identify it.
Soup.
Of course.
Because if Ravi Singh was anything, he was annoyingly persistent. And if Pip was anything, it was cursed to put up with him.
The floorboards creaked as he came back upstairs, his voice carrying before his footsteps did. He was humming—badly—some tune she didn’t recognize, dragging out the last few notes like he thought he was auditioning for a musical.
And then, naturally, the door opened without him even pretending to knock.
“Delivery!” he announced cheerfully, carrying a steaming bowl in both hands like it was some rare treasure. “One very average soup, made with love, sarcasm, and an inappropriate amount of supervision from your mother.”
Pip groaned into her pillow. “You cooked with my mum?”
“No,” he said, walking in with all the swagger in the world. “I cooked under your mum. Difference is, she bossed me around while I argued that my soup-making skills are impeccable. She disagreed. Loudly.”
He set the bowl on her desk, grinning. “Oh, and she said—” He dropped his voice dramatically— “‘After dinner, I’ll show you Pip’s embarrassing childhood pictures.’”
That woke her up. Pip shot upright from her blanket cocoon like someone had hit an eject button. “She didn’t.”
“She did.” Ravi’s grin widened, smug and cruel. “And I can’t wait. I feel like I’ve been waiting my entire life for this moment. Baby Pip? With pigtails? Maybe braces? Did you have braces, Sarge?”
Pip’s face went scarlet. “If you so much as touch one photo—”
“Oh, I’ll do more than touch them.” Ravi leaned in close, voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. “I’m going to frame them.”
She shoved at him, but it was half-hearted, especially when her strength was already sapped by the flu.
“You’re evil,” she muttered, retreating into her blanket.
“Correction: I’m evil and handsome.” He winked before grabbing the bowl of soup. “Now. Doctor Singh prescribes one serving of this life-changing soup. Side effects may include swooning at my jawline and regretting all your life choices up to this point.”
“I’d rather starve,” Pip said flatly.
“Oh, you say that now.” Ravi dipped the spoon into the bowl with exaggerated flair, blowing on it with great ceremony. “But watch. One spoonful and you’ll be begging me to open my own restaurant.”
“Called what? Ravi’s Influenza Café?”
He gasped. “Brilliant. Trademark that immediately.”
“Not a chance.”
“Fine.” He scooted closer to her, holding out the spoon like a weapon. “Open up.”
Pip glared. “You are not feeding me like a toddler.”
“Oh, come on. This is peak romance. Boyfriend hand-feeds girlfriend while she’s sick. Next stop, Netflix will be making a movie about us. It’s cinematic gold, Sarge.”
“I’ll spill it all over your shirt.”
“Worth it.”
“Ravi—”
“Say ‘ahhh.’”
She stared at him, stubbornness burning in her fever-glazed eyes. But Ravi Singh was not a man easily discouraged. He leaned in, so close she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, his voice a whisper meant only for her.
“Please?”
And damn him, but he said it so gently, so sincerely, that Pip’s resolve cracked just a little.
“Fine,” she muttered. “One spoon.”
His grin lit up the room. “That’s my girl.”
He carefully offered her the spoon. Pip opened her mouth reluctantly, eyes narrowed at him the entire time, like she was convinced he was going to pull some prank at the last second. He didn’t. Instead, he watched with exaggerated anticipation as she swallowed.
“Well?” he asked, leaning back, smug.
Pip blinked, swallowed again, then gave him a noncommittal shrug. “It’s… okay.”
“Okay?” Ravi gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, that’s not soup you just tasted. That’s art. That’s generations of culinary genius distilled into one bowl. That’s—”
“Too much salt.”
He clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “Rude! After I slaved away in your kitchen for, like, twenty minutes—”
“Fifteen.”
“—and risked my life cutting carrots with that blunt knife of yours—”
“Drama queen.”
“—you insult me like this?” He shook his head solemnly. “Heartbroken. Truly. Guess I’ll have to take the rest for myself.” He raised the spoon toward his own mouth, but Pip, surprising even herself, snatched his wrist.
“No.”
He froze, a slow grin spreading across his face. “No?”
“Don’t waste it.” She gave a weak glare. “I’ll finish it.”
He leaned in again, smirk pure victory. “Sarge, did you just admit you like my soup?”
“Shut up and feed me before I change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
And so he did, spoon by spoon, teasing her between each one. Sometimes with ridiculous commentary—“Notice the subtle hint of garlic? That’s called chef’s kiss, Pip”—and sometimes with dangerously close proximity, his voice soft and flirty in her ear.
By the time the bowl was half-empty, Pip’s cheeks were warm for reasons that had nothing to do with her fever.
Ravi set the bowl aside and reached for the packet of medicine her mum had left on the desk. He shook two pills into his palm and handed her the water glass.
“Medicine time,” he said firmly.
She wrinkled her nose. “I hate pills.”
“And I hate seeing you miserable, so… bottom’s up.”
She groaned but took them anyway, shooting him a glare as she swallowed.
“Good girl,” he teased.
“Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m definitely going to.” He smirked, leaning closer again. “You’re very cute when you’re cranky, by the way.”
She tried to shove him again, but he caught her wrist gently, laughing. “Easy, Sarge. Save your energy. You’ve already fought valiantly against soup and lost.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, but the softness in her eyes betrayed her.
“No, you don’t.” His voice was low, warm, almost tender now. “You love me. Even when I’m annoying. Especially when I’m annoying.”
Her silence was answer enough.
Ravi tucked the blanket tighter around her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead with surprising gentleness. “Rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up. Unless, of course, your mum brings out those baby pictures early. Then I’ll be downstairs, laughing my head off.”
Pip groaned, burying her face in the blanket. “I’m haunting you for real.”
Ravi leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head. “Looking forward to it, Sarge.”
The world outside Pip’s window was quiet when she stirred awake, the fever haze lifting slightly, the ache in her body dulled by medicine. Her blanket cocoon was still wrapped around her, though looser now, and the room was dim—only the glow of her desk lamp left on.
For a moment, she thought she was alone. Then she noticed him.
Ravi, slouched awkwardly in the chair beside her bed, his long legs bent at impossible angles, his chin tilted to his chest. He was asleep—though not deeply, judging by the crease still furrowed between his brows. His arm was resting close to hers on the mattress, as though he’d fallen asleep mid-watch, refusing to step too far away.
Pip blinked at him. He looked unfairly good asleep. Messy hair falling into his eyes, soft lines where his usual grin stretched, his face now calm, vulnerable.
She reached out before she could think better of it and touched his sleeve, giving him a gentle shake.
The change was instant. His eyes snapped open, alert, searching. He straightened in the chair like a soldier on duty, scanning her face.
“Pip?” His voice was hoarse, sleep-rough but sharp with concern. “What is it? Are you okay? Fever worse? Dizzy?”
She blinked at his flurry of questions, caught somewhere between exasperation and… touched. “I’m fine, Ravi. Really.”
He didn’t look convinced. His hand came up, hovering near her forehead before he thought better of it. “You’re not burning up like before?”
“I said I’m good,” she said firmly, though her voice was still raspy. “Better than earlier. You can stop hovering now.”
He gave her a flat look. “Hovering? That’s called saving lives, Sarge.”
“More like losing sleep.” She tilted her head toward the chair he’d clearly been stuck in for hours. “Seriously, Ravi. Go home. Rest. I’m not going to keel over in the next five minutes.”
“Bold claim,” he said lightly, though the tightness in his shoulders betrayed the seriousness underneath. “And what if you do?”
“I’ll text you from the afterlife,” she muttered, deadpan.
He cracked a grin at that, though it was faint. “See, this is what happens when you leave me alone with my thoughts all night. You get morbid Pip at 3 a.m.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “Ravi, I mean it. I’m fine. You’ve done enough babysitting for one night. Go.”
“Babysitting?” His grin widened, a spark of his usual teasing back. “Is that what we’re calling world-class soup service, top-tier joke delivery, and my dazzling company? Babysitting?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his heart, pretending to stagger back. “My ego. Irreparably damaged.”
She rolled her eyes, but softer this time. “Go home, Singh.”
He stood reluctantly, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. At the door, he paused, glancing back at her with that familiar lopsided smirk.
“You’ll miss me, Sarge.”
“In your dreams,” she shot back, though it lacked bite.
Ravi nodded sagely. “Exactly. Because you’re in them.”
“Go,” she ordered, but she was hiding a smile now.
He gave her a mock salute and stepped out into the hall. She thought that was it—he’d finally leave her to sleep without fuss.
But no. This was Ravi Singh. Of course he came back.
The door creaked open again, and he slipped inside with quieter steps this time. Pip tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Forget something?”
“Yeah,” he said simply. Crossing the room again, he leaned down, pressing the gentlest kiss to her forehead. His hand brushed her elbow—just a squeeze, light but certain, the kind of touch that said I love you without words.
“Rest easy, Sarge,” he murmured, eyes lingering on hers for a beat longer than necessary before pulling away. Then he was gone again, leaving the door cracked open.
Pip lay back, warmth blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with fever.
Morning came with sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the sound of voices downstairs. Pip shuffled groggily to the doorway, curiosity tugging her down the hall.
Her mum’s voice carried clear as day. “You know, Ravi, you should’ve gone home last night. You looked exhausted.”
Pip froze halfway down the stairs.
Ravi’s voice, sheepish but still teasing, floated up. “Couldn’t. You know Pip—stubborn as anything. Someone had to keep an eye on her.”
“She’ll never admit it,” Leanne said warmly, “but she’s lucky to have you. Stayed awake half the night, checking her temperature, making sure she drank water…”
“Mum!” Pip called down, mortified, heat rising to her cheeks.
“Oh, good morning, darling,” Leanne said innocently, her eyes twinkling when Pip appeared. “Ravi was just telling me how worried he was about you.”
Pip shot Ravi a glare. He only shrugged, grin smug as ever.
“Don’t look at me like that, Sarge,” he said. “Can’t help it if your mum thinks I’m the perfect boyfriend.”
Leanne patted his arm fondly. “Because you are, dear.”
Pip groaned, tugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “This household is a nightmare.”
Ravi leaned against the banister, eyes locked on her, voice pitched just low enough for only her to hear.
“Sweet dreams, though, aren’t they?”
And despite herself—despite everything—Pip smiled.