Work Text:
Wilson had fallen asleep easily, Bran's body pressed against him from behind. He'd brushed it off the day before—he's usually clumsy, a bit of stumbling wasn't out of the ordinary.
But he wakes up with a stuffy nose, sore throat, and who knows what else. He groans, rolling over to find an empty bed. Bran is already at work.
Wil drags himself out of bed, hand pressed against the wall for support, grabbing his phone as he passes the nightstand. By some miracle, he makes it to the bathroom. He collapses to his knees, shivering violently enough that he hits his head off the edge of the bathtub as he falls.
Head pounding so hard he feels like he's about to pass out or throw up, Wil fumbles with his phone until he finds Bran's contact. It rings three times before Bran's comforting voice answers with, "Wil?"
Wil tries to say something—anything—but the words get stuck in his throat. All Bran can hear is his labored breathing.
"Wil, what's wrong?" Bran tries again, more worried this time.
"Head… hurt. Sick. Help." Wil forces himself to whisper, his entire body protesting.
"Shit, I knew it. I knew you had a fever last night and I still went to work. Stay there, I'll be home in fifteen minutes. Stay awake for me, baby. Stay on the phone."
Wil tries his best, focusing on the sound of Bran's panicked voice as best as he can curled up on the bathroom floor.
The sound of Bran's truck pulling into the driveway and the phone hanging up ground Wil that slight bit more.
Bran takes the stares two at a time up to the bathroom where Wil lies, utterly defeated. "Hey, baby, look at me. Please." He tilts Wil's head so he can get a better look at him. "You're burning up, but I don't think you concussed yourself. Come on, let's get you to bed." He picks Wil up bridal style, laying him on the bed and tucking him in.
"Sorry," Wil whispers, fingers weakly gripping Bran's sleeve.
"For what, baby?"
"You're s'posed to be at work."
Bran's heart shatters. "You're more important, babe. Get some rest, I'm going to make you some food."
All Bran can think of while he's making tomato soup for Wil is how the brunet never prioritizes himself, not even when he's sick.
He brings the bowl of soup up to Wil on a tray with a slice of sourdough bread and a glass of water.
Bran sits next to Wil on the bed for twenty minutes helping him eat. Once he's certain Wil has had enough, he leaves the brunet in peace.
While Wil fades in and out of restless sleep, Bran gets as much housework done as possible because nothing is worse than having a dirty house while you're sick.
At around nine, after a quick dinner, Bran heads upstairs again and brushes his teeth before climbing into the bed next to Wil in just his t-shirt and boxers.
"Can you sing?" The brunet stirs as he burrows his face into the crook of Bran's neck.
"Me, sing? You know I'm not good, baby." Bran is taken aback by the request.
"Please?"
Bran, in a moment of panic, starts singing Safe & Sound by Taylor Swift. And if he just so happens to know every word by heart, that's nobody's business.
Wil falls asleep clinging to his boyfriend like a lifeline, looking like he's finally getting the rest his body so desperately needs.
✮⋆˙
This becomes routine for a week, Bran singing a different Taylor Swift song each night for his favorite person in the world (not that he'd ever admit that he knows that many Taylor Swift songs by heart).
The way Bran knows that Wil is better is something he'll deny to his grave but Wil would spend the next six months retelling. The blond wakes up on the Sunday morning—his one day off—and finds that he's become the little spoon during the night, Wil's perfect fingernails digging deep into his waist. His breath hitches, and he can almost hear the smirk in his boyfriend's voice as Wil says, "Good mornin', darlin'," in that Texas accent that makes Bran wonder why clothes were ever invented.
Bran swallows the lump in his throat. "Are you feeling better?" His voice is hoarse from restraint.
"Much better."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
Wil's smirk only grows at his fingers pick at the waistband of Bran's boxers, enjoying the playful torture he's putting his boyfriend through.
What happens between breakfast and lunch, they'll never tell. And if the neighbors notice Bran's slight limp as he takes the trash out, well, that's completely unrelated.