Work Text:
Scott slowly draws an arm out from underneath the covers, the soft comforting weight pressing down on him, reaching across the bed to gently intertwine his fingers with Kip's. Linking pinkies. Calloused and warm as they rest as his side, on their soft cotton sheets.
Kip is reclining against the pillows on the other side of the bed — his side of the bed. Shirtless, hair mussed and curling around his forehead, glasses perched on his nose and history book in his lap. He looks like he belongs there. Settled in the domesticity of it. Scott loves it.
Morning sun streaming in through the window, dappled and pushing past the half-opened curtains. It lands on the comforter, on their cotton draped bodies, and settles there. Warm. Bright. Comforting, despite the way it makes Scott squint.
Kip, to his favour, doesn't startle at the sudden touch. At Scott's clammy hand linking with his. Focused as he is on the pages in front of him — until he feels the brush of Scott's hand. He immediately looks down, gaze softening at the sight of his boyfriend.
"Morning baby," Kip mumbles, his voice low as he looks at Scott's still groggy form, half-asleep and palms clammy with sweat. Interlocking their fingers and rhythmically brushing a thumb in circles across the back of Scott's hand. "How you feeling?"
Scott had been out of commission with the flu for two days so far, and he'd been miserable for both of them. Trying to push past the incoming symptoms for even longer.
Insisting he was fine as his morning run hit harder than normal, made his body ache, panting and sweating through his under armour shirt by the time he got home. That he was just a little congested, insisting it was nothing as he sneezed his way through the true crime documentary he and Kip were watching that evening.
Kip knew that hockey players pushing past injuries and illness in order to play was a thing, had seen it in Scott many a time, in fact. He was Captain, he had to be there for his team. Be the role model, the figurehead, the centre.
But he didn't have to be Captain Hunter here in the penthouse with Kip. The season was over, they actually had some time at home together, no practices or games or other hockey things that Scott would have pushed himself to attend. He could just be Scott. And maybe Scott could let Kip take care of him.
So Kip offered his boyfriend a hot cup of tea, a warm bath, a cool compress — anything, something to help, at least a little. Cuddling on the couch under a too-expensive throw blanket, thermostat cranked up a degree or two.
Scott accepted the tea, and the cuddle on the couch, Kip pulling him into his arms. Running a hand through the sweaty strands of Scott's hair as his boyfriend rested against him, head on his chest, eyes drooping heavier and heavier. Scott sank into it, melting into his hold. Cushioned by the plush couch, the throw blanket Kip pulled over them, the warmth of Kip's body underneath him.
Which led him here, in bed with the flu, too sweaty and feverish to cuddle properly — and feeling miserable enough that he craves it even more. Desperately wanting the comfort of Kip's hold, his arms around him, the steady rhythm of his heart beat soothing his aching body. But he wouldn't forgive himself if Kip got sick because of him, because he buried himself in the comfort of Kip's body.
He compromised with himself, weighed it in his head, and let himself indulge in something selfish — and reached for Kip's hand. He lays there, aching, congested, miserable — but he's got Kip. Their fingers entwined, comfortably entangled. Warmth spreading from that point of connection, blooming in his palms and creeping up his arm.
Smiling up at Kip — a little pitifully, half covered by the comforter — Scott makes eye contact before screwing up his face. Taking stock of his body, the way he does on the ice — of the aches and pains and the build up inside him. He readily comes to the conclusion that he still feels much the same. Head aching, body, heavy, fever still making him shiver with sweat.
His sleep shirt clings to his chest, sticky and gross. Racked with chills when he went to sleep — Scott stole an old college shirt of Kip's, advertising some student art expo he had helped with. It desperately needs a wash, and yet Scott kind of doesn't want to take it off. The fabric is worn soft with age, oversized and entirely too comfortable. It's also Kip's. Another layer of comfort, of having his boyfriend with him as he slept.
"Still sick," Scott croaks in reply, congested and nasally. He clears his throat, the sleep from his voice — but just ends up coughing. Huge wracking coughs that shake his frame, tensing his muscles as if he's bracing for impact. He doesn't need to tell Kip anything else — he gets it. He can hear how Scott sounds, can feel the heat radiating off of him.
Kip squeezes his hand — warm, not too tight, just holding on. Letting Scott brace against the hold as another cough takes him. He focuses in on it, on the faint callouses on Kip's own hand, on the gentle motions of his thumb.
Frowning, Scott wants nothing more than to bury himself under the covers until the flu passes — or his fever breaks at least. Instead he sighs, exhaling stagnant air, and tries to relax into the sheets again.
He squeezes back, before rolling in over in bed, still not making any move to get up. So he rolls closer to Kip, anchored together by their hands, until he can bury his face into his boyfriend's side, pressed into his hip. Inhaling, he takes in the scent of their detergent, of Kip, and the soft fabric underneath the planes of his face.
Kip's wearing ridiculously soft sleep pants that Elena had given him last Christmas, and Scott kind of wants to nuzzle it. Feel the warmth of Kip's body underneath the fabric, the comfort of his boyfriend being right there. Finding the balance of keeping the other close, while trying hard not to pass his germs on. He thinks they've found it.
And because he can have this now, because he's sick and miserable and craving comfort — he gives into the urge. Gently nuzzling his boyfriend's hip, the fabric of his sleep pants soft against his face, and faint scent of detergent pleasant as it raises over the scent of his own sweat.
Scott feels more than he sees — Kip fold a bookmark in between the pages of the history textbook he'd been reading, and put it aside. Focusing all his attention on Scott's blanketed form.
They're still holding hands.
"How about this," Kip says, voice still low, reverberating through him as he speaks. Scott feels it, from his spot pressed into his side, and sighs at the sensation. He looks up, blinking slowly, and watches as Kip's gaze focuses in on him. Gaze softening even further as he reaches over with his free hand, and gently brushes Scott's hair out of his face. "I go make you breakfast in bed — plain toast, a blueberry banana smoothie — and then we see if I can help you take a shower before we change the sheets."
"Please." Scott exhales, squeezing Kip's hand. That sounds perfect. He might not have much of a appetite right now, but hot buttered toast and a Blue Moon Over Brooklyn sound great right about now. A Kip special smoothie. His boyfriend helping him, comforting him, taking care of him sounds even better. Now that he's not trying so hard to push past the illness. He takes a second, takes a breath, and looks up at Kip through his lashes. "But. Maybe in a second?"
"Absolutely," Kip replies, easy as anything, letting Scott settle into position at his side. Immediately understanding what Scott's not saying, what he's not asking for — time in bed, just the two of them. To rest, luxuriate in the warmth of the other's hold and the sun streaming through the window.
They settle into each others arms— Scott throwing an arm over Kip's waist; Kip readjusting his hold, one hand running through his boyfriend's hair, the other entwined with Scott's, just like before.