Work Text:
“Hey,” Monty murmurs, leaning over her, voice still heavy with sleep. “You awake?”
Carla makes a small sound that isn’t quite an answer. Her eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering like even that is too much effort. She shifts faintly beneath the covers and then stills again, breath catching.
“‘M head hurts,” she mutters, words slurred together.
“I know,” he says softly. His thumb brushes her temple, pauses there when he feels the heat. “You don’t have to move.”
She tries anyway. A weak attempt to turn onto her side ends with a sharp inhale and a crease between her brows.
“Monty,” she says, voice thin.
“I’m here.” He gets closer instantly, palm settling against her shoulder. “What is it?”
She swallows, and the motion makes her hiss. Her throat feels scraped raw, like it’s been rubbed down from the inside. A small, helpless noise slips out of her before she can stop it.
“Everything,” she says.
That’s when his expression changes. He clicks into place without effort. He sits up fully, brushing her hair back from her face, fingers lingering at her forehead.
“You feel worse,” he says.
She nods, barely. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “Okay. That’s alright. We’re not doing anything today.”
She lets out a weak breath that might almost be a laugh. “W’sn’t planning on it.”
That gets a faint smile out of him. He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, brief but deliberate, like a promise. “I’m gonna get you water. Don’t move.”
She doesn’t answer. She listens instead – he leaves the room, the quiet shift of the apartment waking up around them. Cupboards opening. The kettle filling. Ceramic touching ceramic. Ordinary sounds, grounding sounds, continuing on while her body feels like it’s slowly peeling apart.
By the time he comes back, she’s managed to push herself upright against the pillows. It leaves her dizzy, stomach rolling unpleasantly, but she stays there out of stubbornness more than strength. Her eyelashes fluttering while she tries to battle sleep.
He notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says, setting the glass down. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” she says, even as her head dips forward slightly.
He hands her the pills and the water without comment, “Drink.”
She does as she’s told. Fighting him feels like too much work, and besides… He’s usually right. Irritatingly so. The pills catch in her throat before going down, leaving a burning ache behind that makes her eyes water.
She wipes at her face with the sleeve of the shirt she’s wearing – his shirt, soft and familiar and reeked of his smell. “I feel gross.”
“I know,” he says.
She closes her eyes again, sinking back into the pillows. He stays close, close enough that she doesn’t have to ask.
The time daylight comes around, light creeps through the curtains in pale stripes and shifts slowly across the room. Monty moves quietly, like noise itself might make her worse. He keeps the lights dim, cracks the windows just enough to let fresh air in without letting the cold bite. He checks her temperature more often than necessary, frowning each time like he’s hoping it’ll suddenly change its mind.
He brings her soup she barely eats.
“You don’t have to finish it,” he says when she hesitates after a few spoonfuls.
“I know,” she murmurs, guilt creeping in anyway.
She dozes off mid-sentence more than once. The sleepiness drags her under without ever letting her rest. Every time she surfaces, disoriented and aching, Monty is there – sometimes sitting beside her with his phone forgotten in his hand, sometimes stretched out next to her, sometimes gone but never for long.
At one point she wakes to his voice coming from down the hall, low and careful.
“She’s worse today,” he’s saying. “Yeah. Fever’s still there. No, I don’t think we need a doctor yet. If it spikes, I will. I’m watching her.”
She closes her eyes again, something warm and heavy settling in her chest. She hates being watched, monitored, reduced to symptoms and concern. Hates needing it.
But she loves that he does it anyway.
By the next day, the fever settles deeper.
It’s no longer sharp. Just constant. A simmering heat that lives in her bones, makes her skin sensitive and her thoughts slow. Even shifting on the couch leaves her breathless, head swimming.
She spends most of the day wrapped in blankets, Monty close enough that their legs touch. The contact grounds her more than she wants to admit.
She shifts once and knocks the empty tissue box onto the floor.
“Sorry,” she mutters automatically.
Monty bends down, picks it up, and sets it back on the table, “You don’t need to apologize.”
She grimaces, “I’m a mess.”
“You’re sick,” he corrects gently, “There’s a difference.”
She thinks about that, then shakes her head faintly, “‘Still feel
disgusting.”
He sighs. Not frustrated, just tired in that quiet way that comes from caring too much. He crouches in front of her so they’re eye level.
“Carla,” he says softly, “I married you. All of you. Including this.”
Her throat tightens, “You didn’t sign up for me being like this.”
His smile is small, “I absolutely did.”
She makes a quiet, embarrassed sound and leans forward, pressing her face against his stomach. He laughs softly and rubs her back through the blankets like it’s instinct.
Later, the nausea hits her like a shot in the head.
It rolls through her suddenly, sharp and unmistakable. She gasps and grabs his arm.
“Bin,” she croaks. Way too sick to even say the word ‘bucket’ but her husband catches it immediately.
“I got it,” he says immediately, already moving.
He barely makes it back in time. She leans forward, shaking, the sound ugly and uncontrolled. Tears spill down her face, mixing with sweat and humiliation.
Monty stays steady. One hand holds her hair back. The other rubs slow, grounding circles into her back.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. I got you.”
When it passes, she slumps against him, breathing hard, mortified beyond words. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I keep–”
“You keep being sick,” he interrupts gently. “That’s all.”
He cleans her up without hesitation. Changes the blankets when they’re damp. Helps her rinse her mouth. Holds her while she cries quietly into his shoulder, exhausted, hurt and wrung out.
That night she sleeps horribly. Fever dreams pull half-formed thoughts from her mouth, murmured nonsense she doesn’t remember saying.
Monty doesn’t interrupt.
He just listens.
By the fourth day, something shifts.
Not better. Definitely not better.
The fever loses its edge, but the exhaustion hits harder, like her body has finally stopped fighting and decided to give in. She can barely keep her eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time.
Monty looks more tired too.
She notices it in small ways – shadows under his eyes, the way he rubs at his neck as if massaging himself when he thinks she isn’t looking, how his movements slow like he’s carrying something heavy.
“You’re tired,” Carla says quietly, the words barely there.
Monty hums in response, noncommittal, fingers stilling for just a second before continuing to smooth the blanket over her shoulder, “So are you.”
“That’s different.”
He glances at her, one eyebrow lifting faintly, “Is it?”
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes slip closed again, lashes resting against her cheeks. He waits, counting her breaths until they even out just enough.
When she shifts, restless, he adjusts without thinking – tucks the blanket closer, presses his palm flat between her shoulder blades until the tension eases. The room is dim and quiet, the air thick with late-night stillness. Her head tips forward, heavy, coming to rest against his collarbone.
He doesn’t move. His hand finds her back again, steady pressure, slow and grounding. Not counting anything. Not bracing. Just there.
A minute passes. Her breathing deepens, uneven at first, then smoother. The weight of her settles fully, trust made physical.
Monty exhales, long and quiet, and shifts just enough to make sure she’s comfortable, even if it leaves him half-curled and stiff.
Later – he isn’t sure how much later – she stirs faintly, face turning into his shirt.
“Mm,” she murmurs, half-asleep. “Warm.”
He smiles, barely. “Good.”
She relaxes again, limbs going slack, sleep finally claiming her for real this time. Monty stays still, listening to the rhythm of her breathing, the apartment quiet around them. Eventually, sleep finds him too – awkward and light and imperfect – but it comes.