Work Text:
“The only thing worse than a dead body is a Sheriff who thinks he can outsmart a New England gale,” Seth remarks to the empty hallway.
He steps out of the bedroom, his bare feet slapping against the polished hardwood, smelling of cedar and old books. The house is dim, lit only by the orange, flickering heartbeat of the hearth. There, huddled in a heavy wool blanket that makes him look like a discarded cocoon, sits Amos. He is perched on the edge of the hearth, staring into the embers with a glazed, glassy expression.
Seth stops. He takes in the sight: the shivering shoulders, the damp patches on the collar of Amos’s shirt, and the unmistakable, wet glisten of a runny nose. “What in the world do you think you’re doing, Amos?” Seth’s voice is a low rumble, vibrating in his chest.
Amos looks up, his eyelids heavy, his pupils dilated. When he speaks, his voice is a thick, congested wreck—nasal and wet, as if his sinuses have been replaced by warm porridge. “Jessica... she had a plan. The suspects... they weren't talking. I had to... stay out there... to keep them penned in.”
Seth’s jaw tightens. He knows exactly how this goes. Jessica Fletcher’s intellectual brilliance often came at the expense of the local law enforcement’s physical comfort. He sees the way Amos is trembling—not just from the cold, but from that stubborn, ingrained need to be useful, to be the 'strong' man of the department despite the sexism he faces from the higher-ups in the county. Seth doesn't offer a gentle suggestion. He moves with a sudden, raw intensity, closing the distance in three strides.
He reaches down, his large, warm hands gripping Amos’s biceps with a firm, commanding pressure. He doesn't just help him up; he manhandles him, hoisting the smaller man from the floor with a grunt of effort. Amos lets out a wet, startled wheeze, his head lolling back against Seth’s shoulder. The heat radiating off Seth is a stark contrast to the damp chill clinging to Amos’s skin.
“Up we go and back to bed,” Seth commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. He hooks an arm around Amos’s waist, hauling him flush against his chest. He can feel the heat of a burgeoning fever radiating through Amos’s clothes. “Look at you. You’re turning into a red-nosed amphibian.”
Amos tries to let out a jocular chuckle, but it devolves into a chesty, rattling cough that shakes his entire frame. He sags into Seth, his forehead resting against the crook of Seth’s neck, smelling of rain and sickness.
“I’m fine,” Amos mumbles, though he is leaning into the strength of the man holding him.
“You’re a disaster,” Seth counters, his tone softening but his grip remaining iron-tight as he steers him toward the warmth of the bedroom. “Stay put. If you can survive the night without sneezing your brain out, I’ll cook up some escargot chowder to clear those sinuses. But for now, you don't move a muscle.”