Work Text:
Your hands run through the sudsy water, cleaning the remnants of a last-minute dinner from plates and cutlery. The houseboat is quiet, the sound of water makes soft melodies on the nighttime wind. The gentle waves that cradle your home and the ripples in the kitchen sink make songs that not even your musical genius of a partner could put into succinct stanzas. Soft hums, bubbling in your throat, join the anarchistic chorus, notes and tones thrown together like the pasta you had made only a few hours prior. Amid it all, you feel like a picture of serene mundanity, caring for your house and home which has become your tabula rasa away from the rest of the world.
As your fingers comb through the bubbles, scrubbing mismatched porcelain, a loud crash rattles the boat. The plate is quickly abandoned as you skid into the darkened living room. In the centre, you can only just make out the tall silhouette of your partner. Your partner, who was, at the moment, incredibly sick. Your partner who, you’re almost certain, you told to go to sleep but is now standing over a shattered glass on the floor.
“Shit-” you hiss, trying to guide him away from the shimmering shards and closer to you, “Hobes, what are you doin’ up?”
He turns to you, eyes unfocused and puffy.
“Jus’ needed some water,” he grumbles.
“I coulda-“
“I know you could’ve, but I didn’t wanna be useless, yeah?”
A small sigh escapes you and you can’t help but deflate.
“Yeah…”
You help him to the couch, sitting him down. His head flops back against the worn out couch cushions. Ever so gently, you adjust the bonnet holding his hair in and feel the heat radiating off his still feverish skin.
“How’s it lookin’, doc?” Hobie mumbles.
“Horrible, you’re gonna die,” you joke dryly.
His palm smacks your stomach as you laugh weakly.
“Lemme clean and I’ll grab you some water, kay?”
The only response you get is a weak nod, but it's enough to assure you he isn’t going to try standing up again anytime soon. With a final pat on his chest, you get to work. After disposing of the broken glassware, you return to Hobie’s side with a glass of cool water.
His eyes have drooped closed, lashes resting gently against the dark circles that have formed beneath his eyes. The soft, warm light that spills in from the kitchen dances over his many piercings, making his face glimmer like water under sunlight. You can’t help but take a moment to stare, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as his body works hard to rid itself of illness. It’s not often Hobie gets sick, his spider bite having given him an immunity boost; so when he does go down, he goes down hard. Sweat sticks to his skin, his breathing is shuddery, the smell of sickness hangs in the air. All in all, he should look utterly pathetic, and yet somehow his attractiveness doesn’t dwindle in the slightest. Though you might be a bit biased.
Deciding sleep is what he needs more than anything, you quietly place the cup down on the coffee table. You flop back onto the armchair adjacent to the couch, tiredness seeping up through the old boats floorboards. It climbs its way up your legs, settling in your bones. You know you should probably move to the bed, but a small anxiety nibbles at you. What if you leave and Hobie tries to get up again? The illness has been making him quite dizzy, what if he fell? So, knowing your back and neck will protest in the morning, you settle in to sleep where you are. Unconsciousness takes you quickly, sweeping you off as you fall asleep in the comforting embrace of your home.
“Lovie, the fuck are you doin’ here?”
Hobie’s words startle you awake. Groaning, you bring your arm up to shield your eyes from the morning sun.
“I was sleeping,” you answer.
“Can see that,” he says, flicking your forehead, “but why ain’t you in bed?”
“…cause you weren’t?”
He scoffs softly before leaning down, clearly intending to kiss you. A hand is slapped over his mouth before he can reach his destination, though.
“Ew! Keep away from my face, sicky.”
You can feel his lips twisting into a pout under your palm. Grabbing your wrist, he gently pulls your hand away from his face, confirming that he is, in fact, pouting over a kiss.
“I’m feelin’ better,” he whines.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not still contagious.”
He grumbles, rolling his eyes at you. He does look somewhat better this morning, but you can still see the signs of sickness clinging to him. Before you can examine him any further, he practically tosses himself over your lap, lanky legs hanging over the side of the chair.
“Oi-,“ you huff, “watch your boney arse.”
“You like my boney arse.”
Huffing, you wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. A soft, comfortable silence washes over the two of you. You can feel Hobie’s chest rise and fall with each breath, the soft rattle in his throat caused by the sickness. His hand quickly finds your hair, idly playing with it as you breathe in his scent. Under the smell of sickness and the vicks rub you insisted he apply to his chest, you can still find the faint traces of him. The mint scented body wash he uses, the stench of weed that he can never seem to get out of his old shirts, and even the slight smell of your own shampoo.
“Hey,” Hobie says, interrupting your train of thought, “Don’t you have work today?”
“Nah, called off so I can take care of your dumbass.”
Hobie shakes his head, then presses a kiss atop your head.