Work Text:
Some distant part of Milo's muddled mind registers someone coming into their workshop. Probably Anni again to tell them to give it up and go to bed again. But they have to finish this project, or there won't be money for next week's groceries.
And sure, the achy joints, mind-numbing sinus pressure, labored breathing, and cold sweats aren't helping this job happen in any kind of timely manner, but they're not stopping Milo either. And that's what really matters: that this little sickness from getting stuck out in a torrential downpour of chilled (for a tropical place like Jrusar) winter rain doesn't stop them from doing their fucking job.
So their fingers fumble the work, their mind wanders, things take ten minutes instead of two, but progress is progress. When they're done, then Milo will– no, can rest, because that payday is secure.
Yup. That's exactly what they're going to do–
Warm.
Solid and pressed to Milo's spine, and jade arms for once wrapped in soft sleeves twining over theirs from behind to still Milo's busy hands with smooth, near-burning stone hands.
Milo's mouth opens to object.
"That's enough, Milo," Ashton rumbles from behind them, gently pulling Milo into a toasty embrace.
It's so fucking warm and cozy.
Milo has to tell them they can't, the work needs to be done. But their body is betraying them, nuzzling into that toasty, relaxing heat, going boneless and sleepy.
"...Gr'cery money," Milo manages to mumble the worry out.
"Don't fucking worry about it. My last job will cover it if you don't mind fucking late rent," Ashton assures them.
Which, Milo doesn't care about the fucking rent. Rent is helping pay for groceries and general house upkeep, not a need for regular income for themself.
…Oh, a job is why Anni was nagging them and Ashton wasn't. He just got back, and now he has to take care of Milo because Anni only ever begrudgingly does caretaking shit when she must. That's not fair–
One arm pins both of Milo's to their chest while the freed arm slips beneath their knees to lift Milo out of their seat, shifting them into a princess carry. Part of Milo is a little embarrassed to be so easily manhandled, part of them is just way too fucking tired to fight the warmth-radiating, comfortable hold on them.
"Up we go," Ashton huffs out as they lift Milo up and away from their workbench. "Got a bed and soup fucking waiting for you."
They give in. Milo's got nothing to win by resisting, and they'll get soup in a warm bed if they admit defeat. And fuck defeat sounds so delicious right now.
Milo's half asleep by the time Ashton is sitting on their bed with them in his lap, tugging off Milo's boots (too many hazards to go barefoot in the workshop) to toss into a corner. And where they expect Ashton to tuck them in, instead find themself being settled between Ashton's legs, back to his chest, as he sits against their bed's headboard.
"Soup before sleep," Ashton replies to a soft questioning sound Milo makes.
A steaming bowl of soup that Milo can't smell through the stuffed up nose is held before them. It's only a need to retain some modicum of dignity that has Milo shakily spooning the soup into their own mouth instead of leaving Ashton to feed them.
The incoming nutrition brings back some sparks of clarity to Milo's muddled mind.
"You're gonna get sick fucking spooning me like this," they grumble to their unfairly warm and comfy (for being made of fucking rock) backrest.
"Nah, I don't get sick," Ashton confidently replies.
"'S not true. You got sick after…" a barely there gesture to Ashton's golden scars, the hole in their head.
"Yeah, while I was still getting better from almost fucking dying. Otherwise, I haven't been fucking sick since I was fucking 10 or some shit. And I got fucking chore duty helping with the sick kids every fucking outbreak back at Greymoore. So fucking trust me: I don't get sick. Now finish your fucking soup," Ashton lectures.
Milo grumbles (it's just not fucking fair) but does as told. The soup sits warm and filling and delicious in their belly. Fuck, they should bully Ashton into cooking more. Anni is absolute ass at cooking and Milo doesn't always have the time or energy. Ashton doesn't always have the time or energy either, to be fair, but when Ashton does cook, it always turns out edible and hearty.
Once the soup is gone, Ashton forces Milo to also finish a glass of water (and Milo's glasses follow the empty glass to the side table) before bringing them down into a fully prone position to sleep. And they stay with Milo, bringing that wonderful heat with them to warm the cocoon of blankets they both get wrapped up in.
"Why–" a yawn cracks Milo's jaw, interrupting. "Why're you so fuckin' warm?"
"Stood in front of your forge for a bit. Figured you'd need the extra fucking warmth," Ashton nonchalantly explains, snuggling Milo in even closer.
"...Doesn't this hurt?" the thought strikes Milo and slips off their tongue.
"Eh, less than usual. Heat helps me a fuck-ton too. If you're fucking lucky, you'll be way too fucking out of it to notice when I have to get some space or change positions or some shit."
Milo frowns where Ashton can't see it. They're glad this isn't hurting Ashton more than usual. Fuck knows they probably wouldn't be half as well behaved about it all if Ashton wasn't warm-cuddle-charming them into submission. But they don't want Ashton to be hurting for them later on either. Even if there's jack shit Milo can actually do about it, even if they weren't fucking sick.
Ashton's chin solidly taps the top of Milo's head.
"Quit fucking worrying, I can hear the gears turning in that fucking head of yours. I'm here because I fucking chose to be, so fucking deal. And go the fuck to sleep already," Ashton scolds them.
"Sorry," Milo lowly mumbles the apology, snuggling into Ashton's solid warmth.
"Sleep," Ashton demands, arms tightening around them.
And while Milo's mind attempts to buzz along with the worry, their body won't have it, warm and satiated now, and drags them down into deep sleep.
It's later (Milo doesn't know how much later because living underground is like that) when Milo blearily comes to a bit of consciousness.
"–not cuddling a bag of sickness. What if they fucking barfed on me?" Anni hisses.
"Didn't say you had to do fucking all of this. Could'a just fucking dragged them out of the workshop, tucked 'em into fucking bed. 'S not fucking hard," Ashton scolds.
"Maybe for you. They weren't listening to me," Anni huffs. "Anyways, doesn't fucking matter. They're in bed now. …Did you need fucking anything?"
"Think we're doing good. Probably a hot fucking bath later, if you can fucking help with that."
"Yes, I can run a fucking bath. When?"
"When I go get more soup for this idiot."
"'Kay. Don't let them die."
"Think that was a bigger fucking worry when it was only you caring for them."
"Fuck off!"
A soft amused huff ruffles Milo's hair.
"Hey, Anni?"
"What?" comes her irritable response.
"Thanks for fucking helping and not running for the fucking hills."
"Fuck you. You're welcome. Fuck off back to sleep you fucking softy."
Anni gets a pleased hum in reply, which she treats like an insult, huffing and flouncing away.
Milo closes their eyes, content. Their asshole housemates have got them.