Work Text:
When you woke up to the sounds of birdsong from the window across your bed, and not the shrill tune of your alarm, you immediately knew that something was off. You lay still, your eyes were open but they stared at the ceiling. The sun had made its way through your blinds and onto your nightstand, illuminating a mostly empty glass of water, plus your glasses. Wind blew softly past your face from your open window, and the sound of typical Detroit traffic sounded from far away.
What day was it again…
Fuck.
You groaned as you leaned forward to sit up, and were quickly hit with a heavy wave of dizziness. Suddenly the room felt impossibly big, and also like a spinning top. You lifted an arm to grab your phone, and it was almost as if there were weights pulling down at your wrist.
“No no no no no.”
It was 11:26 am on a Monday. You should’ve been at the station over 3 hours ago.
5 missed calls from Hank, 3 from Connor.
The thought of calling out made the hair which already stood on your neck protrude even more. But the thought of going to work in whatever state this was, just to get chewed out by Fowler when you arrived was about a million times less appealing.
You begrudgingly went to the phone app and called Fowler Work, who upon hearing your croaky voice, was quick to affirm your decision to stay home. Thank god.
You let your head fall back onto your pillow and let out a deep sigh. A small ray of sunlight from the blinds shined onto your face.
At least it was a nice day out, you wouldn’t have to be completely miserable while you were sick.
I’ll just sleep it off.
Knock, knock.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Detective?”
A small pause.
“Detective…?”
Your eyes opened first. Connor’s voice was all too recognizable. But why was he here? You were so groggy and loopy now that you almost forgot that you took the day off.
You sat up for a moment, the room had only gotten less stable since the last you had been conscious in it. Lovely.
The thought of ignoring Connor, however, trumped your subconscious whispers of going back to sleep.
One foot hit the floor, and then the next, both of which felt as heavy as they were unbalanced on the hardwood floor. Slowly you stepped out of your room, down the hall, and up to the front door.
You realized you had been holding your breath, and before you opened the door to your impossibly handsome android coworker, you took a few small breaths. Like it would do anything.
He stood there, in his carhartt jacket, with a small plastic bag from walgreens.
“I hope my presence is not bothersome, detective.”
“No- no. Of course not.” Your voice was noticeably quieter than usual.
He nodded to himself, seeming reassured that he had not disturbed you, and his LED went from a mixture of yellow and blue to his normal blue light. “Captain Fowler informed me and Hank that you had come down with some form of sickness.”
You simply nodded, still standing in the doorway.
Connor cleared his throat, “I know that you live alone, without many other friends nearby. So, after consulting with Hank, he agreed to take on my files for the afternoon so I could come and be certain you were doing alright.”
Oh.
You stood there in silence for a moment, before realizing you were staring. If Connor noticed, he didn’t make it obvious.
“Connor, you really don’t have to-“
“Detective I insist. It worries me to think of you being unwell with no help.” He gave you a look of concern that nearly made your heart melt.
You almost caught yourself staring again before you realized you hadn’t even invited him in yet. Stupid fever brain.
“Okay, yeah. Uhhh please come in.”
You stepped aside and weakly extended an arm out, to which he bowed his head and walked past you. He removed his jacket, laying it neatly on the brown loveseat in your small living room he always left it on, before making his way towards the kitchen.
He set the bag down on the kitchen counter, and turned back to you. “My analysis of your health says that you have a 99 degree fever, and are experiencing symptoms of fatigue, as well as chills.”
You brought a hand to your own forehead, as if your hand wasn’t also affected by your sickness. Fever brain again.
Connor chuckled at your quick reaction to his comment before walking over to the sink to wash his hands.
Your forehead was warm, obviously.
You continued to follow him, still uneven in your steps and stopped at the kitchen counter, where you nudged the walgreens bag that now laid there.
“What’s in the bag?”
He perked up from the sink and came over to you, and started removing items one by one.
“My systems told me that the most probable illness that you had come down with was a fever, which I was correct about,” he grinned as he removed a bottle of pills, “so I brought Tylenol since my previous analysis of your pantry told me you had none.”
He handed you the bottle and then pulled out a can of soda, your favorite flavor.
“I thought that this might make taking the medication a more pleasant experience for you.” He smiled softly and pushed both towards you.
You studied at him for a moment. It was very rare anyone was ever this thoughtful towards you. It was unheard of for anyone to remember your favorite flavor of soda.
The loopy, feverish part of you wanted to give him a hug. You tried to bury this part of you as deeply as possible.
“Thank you, Connor. This is… very sweet of you.” You looked up at him and gave him a small smile, quickly looking away when his deep brown eyes met your own.
“Of course, detective.” He looked away and rummaged through the plastic bag some more.
“I also brought a can of chicken noodle soup.” He pulled it out and set it on the counter, “I thought I could make it for you, while you rest. Is that okay?” He tilted his head slightly, which made you swoon. Internally, of course.
You nodded, but uncertain. “Are you really sure you want to miss work for this? I could make the soup myself so you can go back to the station…” A stab of guilt hit you in your sternum, and you fiddled with the can of soup as you spoke.
“Me and Hank have already come to an agreement. I promise you, detective, this is the top of my priorities today.” He spoke firmly.
Okay.
“Okay.”
You and your subconscious finally agreed with one another.
“I think I’m going to go lay down then.”
Connor nodded, and turned towards the stove, where he started to prepare to make the soup.
“I hope you rest well, detective.” He spoke softly.
You began to walk away, but something seemed to have taken over you after he said that.
You and your subconscious were now acting in tandem.
You turned back around and moved to where he stood in front of the stove, using a hand on his shoulder to prop yourself up and give him a soft kiss on the cheek.
Stupid fever brain.
He quickly turned around, but no one was there. You’d fled the scene as quickly as possible. Something in your fever-stricken state had told you that he may forget it if he didn’t see you at the scene of the crime.
What you didn’t know was that he stood there at the stove, holding a hand gently where your presence now lingered on his skin.