Work Text:
The apartment was quieter than usual when Robert pushed through the door, keys jangling against the doorframe before he caught them with practiced ease. The familiar click of the lock sliding home seemed louder somehow in the muted atmosphere, echoing in a space that should have been filled with your usual greeting—either called from the kitchen or offered in person as you padded over in those bunny slippers that you lowkey hated (they made your feet sweat too much) but refused to stop wearing them. You hate wasting things, whether it be food, accessories, or items overall. Not like he can blame you.
Instead: silence.
Well, not complete silence. There was the telltale sound of Beef’s tag jingling, but the usual enthusiastic scramble of claws against hardwood was noticeably absent. No rotund canine projectile launching himself at Robert’s legs in greeting. No excited whining and immediate demands for food. Just the soft clink-clink of a collar being adjusted, presumably as the dog lifted his head from wherever he’d been stationed.
Robert’s brows furrowed, that particular crease forming between them that you’d once poked at with your finger during a late night and called his “concerned nerd look”—a designation that had made him both exasperated and pleased in equal measure.
“[Name]?” He called out, toeing off his shoes with less care than usual, leaving them askew by the door in a way that would normally have you teasing him about his suddenly lax standards. “Beef?”
The response came not in words but in a low, sustained whine from the direction of the bedroom. Robert’s heart did that stupid skip-jump thing—the same one that happened every time something seemed even slightly wrong with you, every time you were late responding to a text (because you honestly always responded to his texts within seconds), every time you sighed in a way that suggested stress rather than contentment.
He’d thought that particular anxiety response would ease after you’d both started dating. Turns out having someone to love just meant having infinitely more to worry about. Who knew? Well, probably everyone. But knowing it intellectually and experiencing it viscerally were two very different things, Robert.
He moved quickly through the apartment, a place that has transformed since he starting working at SDN and the Mecha Man suit had been cleared out to be repaired. You've been wanting to make the place a home for awhile, of course you had, he just had difficultly accepting it. He was very particular and perhaps a bit too snappy for his own good during the dark times.
He dropped his backpack carelessly onto the couch as he made his way to the bedroom. It's door was cracked open, as it often is to let Beef roam around while the two of you slept.
The sight that greeted him would have been endearing if it wasn’t so concerning.
You were buried under what appeared to be every blanket in the apartment—the comforter, the throw from the couch, that weighted blanket you’d insisted on buying during a late-night online shopping spree even though you were also stressed about spending online fees, even the slightly scratchy one from the back of the closet that neither of you particularly liked but kept around for mysterious reasons neither could quite remember. The mountain of fabric rose and fell with your breathing in the dim room, and Beef, as he usually does, had appointed himself guardian, pressed against the side of the bed with his head resting on the mattress (given the two of you have still refused to get a bed frame), those soulful brown eyes tracking Robert’s entrance with what could only be described as relief.
“Oh, baby,” Robert breathed, and even he could hear the worry bleeding into his voice as he crossed the room in three quick strides. Smoothly sliding onto the mattress where his hand found your forehead—an automatic gesture born from months of recovering from his own injuries, from you checking his temperature countless times when he’d been too stubborn to admit he’d overdone it during physical therapy.
You were burning up.
Not dangerously so, probably—he wasn’t a doctor despite his tendency to WebMD symptoms at two in the morning—but enough that it sent a spike of concern through his chest. Your skin was flushed, a high color in your cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment or exertion, and when your eyes fluttered open at his touch, they were glassy and unfocused in that particular way that spoke of fever-induced fog that only meant you felt miserable.
“Rob?” Your voice came out rough, cracked like old leather left too long in the sun. You blinked slowly, processing speed clearly diminished. “You’re… home?”
“Have been for about thirty seconds,” he confirmed, his thumb tracing a gentle arc across your temple, cataloging the heat radiating from your skin. His other hand had already found Beef’s head, offering the dog a reassuring scratch behind the ears as if to say good job keeping watch, buddy. “How long have you been like this?”
The question seemed to require an extraordinary amount of mental processing. He watched you try to calculate, saw the moment you gave up with a small, defeated sound that made his chest constrict.
“Dunno,” you finally managed, words slightly slurred at the edges. “Morning? Maybe? Beef’s been…” You nodded vaguely at the dog, the movement weak and uncoordinated. “Good boy. Best boy. Stayed with me.”
The chubby dog's tail wagged, tongue lulling out at the praise.
“Yeah, he’s getting extra treats for this,” Robert agreed, but his attention remained on you. Fever, obviously. Hydration status? He glanced at the side of the mattress—one glass of water, mostly full, sitting there, suggesting you hadn’t been drinking enough. Medication? He couldn’t see any evidence of it. Food? Probably not, if you’d been feeling this rough. He should've noticed this morning. Something he doesn't say outloud because you'd probably reprimand him for it.
Right. Okay. He could handle this. He’d dealt with significantly more complex problems. This was just… taking care of someone he loved. Someone who’d spent months taking care of him, who’d sat by his hospital bed and learned his rehab exercises and bullied him into actually following doctor’s orders when his natural stubbornness kicked in. Someone who's been there his entire life, both kindhearted and teasing that was more loving than his tough love of a uprising was.
Turnabout was fair play.
“Alright,” he said, injecting his voice with a confidence. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to get you some actual water, some medicine if we have any fever reducers that aren’t expired—no promises there, our medicine cabinet is a disaster—and something light to eat. Toast maybe. Can you handle toast?”
You made a noncommittal sound that he chose to interpret as agreement.
“Great. Toast it is. And then—” he paused, leaning down so he was eye-level with you, his hand still cupped against your face, thumb now tracing the curve of your cheekbone, “—you’re going to let me take care of you without any protests about being fine or not wanting to be a burden or whatever other self-sacrificing nonsense your fever brain is cooking up. Deal?”
Your eyes had drifted closed again, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re bossy when you’re worried. It's hot."
“I’m always hot,” he countered, pressing the lightest kiss to your forehead—just a brush of lips against overheated skin—before straightening. “You just usually don’t listen to me.”
“Smart of me,” you murmured, already drifting back toward sleep.
Robert huffed out a laugh that was more affection than amusement. “Beef, you’re in charge until I get back,” he told the dog seriously. Beef’s tail thumped once against the floor in acknowledgment of his continued duty.
The kitchen raid was swift and efficient. Water bottle—where he rummaged for a stray straw in your guys everything cabinet. Crackers instead of toast because the toaster had decided to die two weeks ago and neither of you had gotten around to replacing it yet. A fact he only remembered now. A banana because that seemed like something that qualified as “easy on the stomach.” Tylenol that was, miraculously, not expired—though they would be in another month, so that was cutting it close.
He loaded everything onto a tray—when had they gotten a tray? Had they always had a tray? Was this something you’d bought during one of your organizational kicks? Or maybe during one of your thrifts store visits that you scurried off to without him? —and headed back to the bedroom, Beef padding along behind him like a furry solider trotting after his superior.
You’d shifted slightly in his absence, one arm thrown over your eyes to block out the lamplight he cranked on earlier. Robert set the tray carefully on the ground, then settled onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“Hey,” he said softly, his hand finding your shoulder through the impressive layer of blankets. “Medicine time.”
“Mmm, no,” you protested, but it lacked any real conviction. “I’m fine.”
“You’re really not.” He helped you sit up—a more complicated process than it should have been given the blanket situation and your apparent loss of fine motor control. You listed sideways slightly, and he found himself with an armful of feverish, disgruntled human who was glaring at him with significantly less menace than probably intended.
“Take these,” he instructed, pressing two pills into your palm and following up with the water bottle. “All of it. The water, I mean. Not the pills. Don’t… don’t take all the pills. That would be bad.”
Despite everything, you laughed—a rough, scratchy sound but genuine. “Your nursing skills need work.”
“Hey, I kept myself alive through months of recovery,” he defended, watching to make sure you actually swallowed the medication and drank a reasonable amount of water. “That counts for something.”
“You had me for that,” you pointed out, and yeah, okay, that was fair. “I did all the actual work.”
“Which is exactly why I’m returning the favor now.” He adjusted the pillows behind you, fluffing them with perhaps more aggression than necessary. “Eat something. Crackers or banana, your choice. Don’t make me do the airplane thing because I will, and you know I’ll commit to the bit.”
You reached for the banana with the kind of resigned acceptance that suggested you knew arguing was futile. He watched you take small, deliberate bites, his own tension gradually easing as you managed to eat about half before declaring yourself done with a firmness that brooked no argument.
“Good enough,” he conceded, taking the remaining food and setting it aside. “Now, actual sleep. Real sleep, not this half-dozing thing you’ve probably been doing all day.”
He moved to stand, intending to at least change out of his work clothes and maybe set up camp in the chair by the window—close enough to help if you needed anything but far enough not to disturb your rest. Your hand caught his wrist, grip weak but insistent.
“Stay?” The word came out small, almost uncertain. “Please?”
Like he could refuse you anything, especially when you were sick and asking so sweetly. Like there was any universe where he’d choose to be anywhere else.
“Yeah,” he said softly, already toeing off his socks and working on his belt. “I’m staying. Let me just—get out of my work clothes.”
He made it back in 40 seconds—a new record, probably—stripped to his boxers. Because it's not like you haven't seen him in his underwear or vice versa. Well, the two of you have seen a lot more than that, actually.
The bed was a tighter fit with you buried under the blanket mountain, but he managed to slide in carefully, trying not to jostle you too much as he settled in.
You immediately gravitated toward him, that seeking heat you always did in sleep, your head finding his chest with the kind of automatic precision that spoke of habit and comfort. One of your arms draped across his stomach, and even through the fever, he could feel you relax incrementally as he wrapped his own arms around you.
Beef, apparently deeming the situation under control now that backup had arrived, huffed out a dramatic sigh and curled up on his dog bed in the corner, though his eyes remained open and alert. Still on duty, just on break.
“You’re gonna get sick,” you mumbled against his chest, the words muffled by fabric and congestion.
“Probably,” Robert agreed easily, one hand coming up to card through your hair—careful, gentle, the kind of touch meant to soothe rather than stimulate. “Don’t really care.”
“You should care.” But you were already drifting, pulled down by fever and exhaustion and the comfort of being held. “Work… important… dispatcher stuff…”
“Shh.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, breathing in the scent of your shampoo mixed with the slight sour tang of fever-sweat. “Work can survive without me for a day. You’re more important.”
You made a soft, disbelieving sound. “Sap.”
“Your sap,” he corrected, and felt more than heard your answering hum of agreement.
The night passed in that strange, disjointed way nights do when someone is sick—periods of deep sleep interrupted by moments of restlessness, of adjusting blankets, of you whimpering softly when dreams turned uncomfortable and him murmuring reassurances until you settled again. He dozed intermittently, never fully falling under, some primal part of his brain insisting on staying alert enough to monitor your breathing, your temperature, the general of your condition.
Somewhere around three AM, you’d woken more fully, disoriented and shivering despite the warmth of both fever and blankets. He’d helped you to the bathroom, stood outside the door like a worried sentinel until you emerged, then guided you back to bed and coaxed more water into you along with another round of medicine.
“Rob?” You’d asked as he settled back beside you, your voice still rough but clearer than before.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.” Simple words, but weighted with the kind of sincerity that made his chest feel too full. “For this. For taking care of me.”
“Always,” he’d replied, echoing words you’d once said to him during his own recovery. “I’m always going to be here.”
You’d smiled then, soft and genuine despite the discomfort written across your features. “I know.”
And then, before he could redirect you properly back to sleep, he pressed a kiss to your jaw—hand automatically coming up to cradle the back of your head.
“You really shouldn’t,” you protested weakly, even as his thumb traced the curve of your skull. “You're going to get sick.”
“Don’t care,” he murmured, echoing his earlier declaration. His lips had found your cheek next, then the corner of your mouth, featherlight touched that sent warmth cascading through the both of you that had nothing to do with your fever or shared heat.
“Missed you today. Just… missed you.” You whisper, lashes shut and content painting your features.
And what was he supposed to do with that? How was he supposed to maintain any kind of reasonable boundaries when you said things like that, when you looked at him with those fever-bright eyes full of affection and trust and something that still sometimes made him wonder how he’d gotten this lucky?
"Missed you too, hon,” he’d breathed, giving in with the inevitability of gravity.
"More?" You murmur and he smiles, choosing not to tease you on being vague or act like he doesn't know what you mean exactly.
"Okay, but just… a few. To help you sleep better.”
“Obviously,” you’d agreed, lips already finding his in a proper kiss—slow and sweet and gentle, the kind of kiss that wasn’t about passion or heat but about comfort and connection and I love you without needing to say the words.
He’d kissed you back carefully, mindful of your state, keeping it soft and brief despite the way his heart was racing behind his ribs. Once, twice, three times—small presses of lips that tasted like fever and medicine and somehow still managed to be perfect.
He wanted to kiss you for longer and you wanted to kiss him for longer. But he was already pulling away.
“There,” he’d said, though that exasperation from earlier was lacking. His eyes had softened as they peered into yours, caught in that interlinked moment that always seemed to happen after kisses—like your gazes were tethered together by invisible string, unable to look away even if you’d wanted to. Which you never did. “Better now?”
“Mm…” You’d made a show of thinking about it, paired with an ever-dramatic drag of “hmm” complete with audible thinking sounds. Just in case it wasn’t obvious before, of course. The resulting half-eye-roll from him was caught in your vision, along with that smirk despite such antics. “Yes. Yes. Much better.” You’d finally concluded, smiling innocently at him in that way that always made him want to kiss you more and also maybe tickle you until you admitted you were being deliberately difficult.
“Good.” He’d guided your head back to his chest, resuming the gentle stroking of your hair. "Now go to sleep."
"Yeah yeah, asshole."
He chuckled at that, smiling at the dark ceiling. Within minutes, your breathing had evened out into the deep rhythm of actual sleep, your body heavy and trusting against his.
He’d stayed awake a while longer, watching the shadows shift across the ceiling, listening to your breathing and Beef’s occasional snores from the corner. His mind had drifted through the surreal reality of his life—that he got to have this, that someone like you had chosen someone like him, that after everything he’d lost and struggled through, he’d somehow found his way here.
To this bed, with you in his arms. With a life that you were building together. One day at a time with a love that felt both thrillingly new and comfortably familiar, like coming home to a place you’d always been meant to be.
Eventually, sleep had claimed him too, pulled under by exhaustion and the warmth of holding you close.
Morning arrived with the kind of aggressive brightness that suggested neither of them had remembered to close the curtains fully the night before. Robert became aware of consciousness gradually—first the warmth, then the weight of another person against him, then the pounding behind his temples that definitely hadn’t been there yesterday. Made ten times worse as his alarm screeches at him, demanding he wake up and go clock in for more hours of being bullied by a team of ex-villains.
He groaned as he got smacked, your arm, pointedly and silently telling him to get up or at least shut off his alarm. Which he was doing, all while feeling miserable.
His throat felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper. His sinuses were staging a coup. His body ached with that particular all-over misery that signified his immune system had, in fact, utterly failed to fight off whatever plague you’d been harboring. How could you do this to me, he silently laments… as if it isn't totally his fault.
Worth it, his brain supplied immediately, even as he tried to swallow and discovered his throat had other opinions about that action.
You were still mostly asleep, though you’d shifted during the night—your back pressed against his side now, his arm slung over your waist. Beef had apparently migrated at some point and was now sprawled against your chest like an oversized chunky baby that's been overfed by worried first time parents. A not so wrong comparison.
Robert tried to assess his condition without moving too much or making his agony so visible Feeling his face and forehead. Fever? Check. Congestion? Double check. General sense that his body was betraying him in favor of viral invaders? Oh yeah, definitely check.
Guess he isn't going to work today. If he was forced to he might just do that open-mouth cough kids do till he's pointedly sent home. So after silencing his phone, he rolls back, tightening his arm slightly around your waist, pressed his face into your hair (thus definitely making any quarantine efforts pointless), and decided that he can miss today. You were still warm—though less alarmingly so than yesterday—and your breathing sounded clearer. Improvement. Good. He’d take it.
The shift must have registered in your sleep because you stirred, a soft sound escaping as consciousness began to drag you upward. He felt the moment awareness fully returned—the slight tension that entered your muscles before you deliberately relaxed, the change in breathing pattern.
“Hey,” you murmured, your voice still rough but markedly better than last night.
“Hey yourself,” he attempted, and immediately regretted speaking as his throat lodged a formal complaint. The sound that came out was somewhere between a croak and a rasp, and would have been humorous if it didn’t hurt quite so much.
You were turning in his arms before he could protest—careful of Beef, who grumbled at the disruption—your eyes widening as you took in his appearance. Whatever you saw made your expression shift into something caught between guilt and fond exasperation.
“Rob—”
“I’m fine,” he lied reflexively.
Your hand found his forehead with the same automatic gesture he’d used on you yesterday. Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re burning up.”
“Barely noticeable,” he countered, and tried for a reassuring smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Just a little warm. Totally normal. Probably just, uh, residual heat from all those blankets you hoarded.”
“Robert.”
He sighed, giving up the pretense. “Okay, yes, I’m sick. Obviously. You were sick. I kissed you multiple times. We slept together. Math was done, and here we are.”
Your expression had shifted fully into guilt now, brows furrowing in that way that meant you were spiraling into self-recrimination. “I told you not to kiss me. I specifically said you’d get sick.” Even though you do remember sort of… y'know. Egging him on to kiss you more. But we'll just ignore that fact.
“And I specifically didn’t listen,” he pointed out, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together with the ease of long practice. “Shocking behavior from me, I know. Truly unprecedented.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” When your glare intensified, he softened, his thumb tracing circles against your palm. “Hey. [Name]. Look at me.”
You did, reluctantly, and he made sure you could see nothing but sincerity in his expression despite the general misery of his physical state.
“Worth it,” he said simply. “Every single second. Would do it again. Will do it again, probably, next time one of us gets sick. You can’t stop me. We can be sick together. Always."
“That’s so stupid,” you whispered, but your eyes had gone shiny in that way that meant you were fighting tears. “You’re so stupid.”
“Yeah, well, I’m your stupid,” he countered, gently tugging you closer despite your half-hearted resistance. “We’ve established this. It’s in the boyfriend contract. Section three, subsection B: ‘Party A agrees to be Party B’s specific brand of stupid for the duration of the relationship.’”
That startled a laugh out of you—watery and slightly hysterical, but a laugh nonetheless. “There’s no boyfriend contract.”
“There absolutely is. I have it notarized and everything.” He was fully committing to the bit now, even though talking this much was making his throat feel like a war zone. “It’s very official. Has one of those wax seals and everything. Very fancy.”
“You’re delirious,” you decided, but you’d stopped pulling away. In fact, you’d settled more fully against him, your free hand coming up to brush hair back from his forehead with the kind of tenderness that made his chest constrict pleasantly despite the general unpleasantness of being sick. The touch sliding back and tracing his ear lobe with the missing part you often idly caressed during movie nights.
“Probably,” he conceded. “Fever’ll do that. But I maintain my earlier stance: worth it.”
You studied his face for a long moment, and he wondered what you saw—the flushed cheeks, the glassy eyes, the general air of someone who had made deliberate and informed poor choices regarding communicable disease transmission and had zero regrets.
“I hate that I love you,” you finally said, but the words were so full of affection that they lost any sting they might have carried.
“No you don’t,” he replied confidently, fighting back a cough. “You love that you love me. It’s your favorite thing.”
“Second favorite,” you corrected, and before he could ask what the first was, you’d closed the distance and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—brief and gentle and tasting like morning and medicine and coming full circle.
“You’re gonna get more sick,” he protested weakly when you pulled back, though his hand had already come up to cup your jaw, keeping you close.
“Don’t care,” you echoed his words from last night, then kissed him again because apparently neither of you had any sense of self-preservation when it came to each other. “We’ll be sick together, like you said. Very romantic.”
“Extremely romantic,” he agreed, slightly breathless. “We can have competing fevers. See whose gets higher. Make it a competition.”
“You’re so weird.”
“Your weird,” he reminded you, then had to pause as a coughing fit finally caught up with him. You waited it out patiently, your hand rubbing soothing circles on his back, and when he finally caught his breath you were already reaching for the water bottle from last night. Again, also infected.
“Drink,” you ordered, and the role reversal would have been amusing if he wasn’t busy trying not to die. “All of it.”
“Bossy,” he complained, but obeyed.
“I learned from the best,” you replied sweetly, then added, “And by best, I mean bossiest. Which is you. You’re the bossiest.”
“I prefer ‘assertive’ or ‘decisive,’” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn’t much given his current state. “Bossy sounds so… dictatorial.”
“You literally gave Beef a command last night like you were addressing your troops.”
“He needed clear direction."
Your laugh was bright and genuine, and hearing it—seeing you looking so much better than yesterday—made every ache and pain worth it. You were still warm, still slightly flushed, but the fever-glaze had left your eyes and you were here, present and teasing him and clearly on the mend.
Yeah. Definitely worth it.
“Okay,” you said, settling back against him with the determination of someone who’d made a decision. “New plan. We’re both sick, so we’re both staying in bed. I’ll dash us more medicine and food and water, and then we’re going to binge-watch something terrible and sleep and generally be pathetic together.”
“Best plan I’ve heard all week,” he agreed, his arms wrapping around you properly now. Beef, apparently deciding this was his cue, heaved himself up with a dramatic groan and padded out of the room, presumably in search of breakfast or a less disease-ridden environment.
“Traitor,” Robert called after him, which just made you laugh again.
You shifted to look at him properly, and for a moment you both just existed there—tangled up in blankets and each other, sick and slightly miserable but together in it. His hand found your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone with the kind of reverence that still sometimes caught him off guard. That he got to do this. That you let him.
“I love you,” he said softly, because sometimes you just needed to say it, needed to give voice to the enormity of feeling that lived permanent residence in his chest these days.
Your expression melted into something so tender it made his already racing heart squeeze. “I love you too,” you replied, leaning into his touch. “Even though you’re a stubborn idiot who doesn’t listen to medical advice.”
“Especially because I’m a stubborn idiot who doesn’t listen to medical advice,” he corrected.
“Yeah,” you agreed, kissing him once more—brief and sweet and perfect. “Especially because of that.”
A groan emitted from behind you as your arm shifted to get more comfortable, making contact with his ribs.
“Ow.”
“Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” he wheezed, then reconsidered. “Actually no, it’s not fine. I’m dying. This is it. Tell Beef… tell Beef he can have my cereal. And it was all your other parents fault dad got sick."
“I told you you’d get sick,” you pointed out, unable to help the slight smugness in your tone despite the concern. I told you, I told you, I told you.
“Worth it,” he repeated, because apparently that was his thesis statement for this entire situation. His arms tightened around you fractionally. “Totally, completely, one hundred percent worth it.”
And despite the fever, despite the body aches, despite the fact that you were both going to be absolutely miserable for the next few days—he meant it. Because this—lying here with you, sick as dogs but together, making terrible jokes and trading kisses that definitely weren’t helping either of your recovery times—this was everything he’d never known he needed until you’d stumbled into his life and refused to leave even when things got hard.
Especially when things got hard, really.
“Go back to sleep,” you instructed, already half-way there yourself, your body heavy with exhaustion and healing. “We’ll deal with being functional humans later.”
“Much later,” he agreed, his eyes already drifting closed. “Like, maybe tomorrow. Or next week. I’m flexible.”
Your answering laugh was soft, muffled against his chest as you burrowed closer. “Next week sounds good.”
And as consciousness faded back into the warm comfort of fever-dreams and the security of holding someone he loved, Robert’s last coherent thought was that yeah—he’d absolutely do this all over again.
Every single time.
No regrets.
Well, maybe a few regrets in the morning when everything hurt worse and they were both completely out of medicine and someone would have to venture out into the world to acquire supplies. But those were tomorrow problems. And any problem that doesn't involve having Z-Team on his back, well. That's better than a little sniffles.
…Beef, however, would return twenty minutes later with his food bowl, dropping it meaningfully and loudly beside the bed, and stared at them both with the judgment only a dog can muster. Pointedly banging it with a smacking paw until his sick parents groaned in acknowledgment.