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yeyinde · 1 year

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how do you think the boys would look after you when you’re sick? i think Soap and Gaz would wind up getting sick because they couldn’t stay away from you

they definitely seem like the type to coddle. as for the rest—

GHOST—

It's short. Succinct. He prefers blunt honesty, and that's what you aim for when, sniffling pathetically, you open up your messages, and type out: Can't make it. Came down with something, and hit SEND.

It goes unanswered.

You pretend, through the hazy spool of your fever, the one that clots inside of your head until you're shivering, teeth chattering, and yearning, that you aren't surprised. That it doesn't prickle somewhere inside of your chest with the distinct flavour of disappointment.

You toss your phone aside, head swimming, and try to get some sleep. You need rest.

You dream of vague touches, and low words dripped in condescension but carrying a tinge of worry. Of care. It's a mess inside the gummy spool of sickness, but it's comforting. The phantom hand on your forehead makes you sigh.

When you wake up hours later, there is a bag from the pharmacy filled with electrolyte water, cold and flu medication, canned soup, and something to reduce your fever. No note. No phone call. No text. The message is clear.

(Next to the bag, is tea in a thermos. No brand. You taste it and know he made it himself.)

—distant, reserved. He sends you a care package, one he delivers himself, but doesn't linger. If you ask him about it, he'll roll his eyes, maybe mutter a fuckin' hell as he walks away from you.

—(if you'd touched the seat across from your bed, you'd find that it was still warm.)

GAZ—

He shows up wearing a mask, and has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Says, as he makes his way inside, that he'll fix you right up. All you can do is baulk when he storms your kitchen, pots clattering loudly together, and tells you to go sit. He has it covered.

(It surprises you a little bit when he does.)

He brings spicy soup that, according to his auntie, is going to clear your sinuses. He fluffs your pillows and drags a blanket over to you. Tucks you in, nice and tight, and turns on Taskmaster for you.

You spend the evening drifting in and out, caught in the throes of a fever nap, but he stays by your side the whole time.

You wake up late at night, startled awake by some ALDI commercial, and find him snoring on your couch, your feet in his lap. The mask is lopsided. His hair is moussed. He left you some medicine and a glass of water on the coffee table.

His phone chimes with the sound of an alarm. When you check the notification, all it says is: MEDICINE. EVERY FOUR HOURS. You turn it off, and a notes app pops up. You don't mean to look, but the sight makes you a little misty-eyed.

how to care for someone who is sick

All the boxes are ticked. Spicy soup. Water. Blankets. Rest. Medicine.

You throw the end of your blanket over him and snuggle into his side.

He wakes up hours later, and you watch trashy reality television together until he carries you to bed.

—no getting rid of him. He wants to make sure you're taken care of. It doesn't surprise you at all, when, a few days later he rings you up, and says he's sick. He's a surprisingly adept caretaker.

SOAP—

The last thing you remember is texting Soap about something—sick, can't make it—before the medication and the sickness dragged you under.

You wake up, sticky and wet from the cold sweat of a fever—edging, somehow, on the equilibrium of being both incredibly hot to the point of panting from the inferno blazing through your veins, and absolutely freezing, near hypothermic with goosebumps, and chattering teeth. Nothing sticks in the oil-slick lining of your head. It doesn't make sense. You're dizzy and disoriented. The room spins. You kick the covers off of your burning legs, but pull the comfort tighter around your torso where an arctic chill has settled in the pit of your stomach.

You try to move, but you're chained down. Locked. Trapped. You nearly panic, but a noise cuts through the wave of terror—

"Stop wigglin' so much," it's slurred into your shoulder, humid breath ghosting over your sweat-slicked neck. "M'tryin' t'sleep…"

His mohawk tickles your nose, his scent thick in your throat. Soap pulls you closer, tucking you deeper into his embrace, and murmurs soothingly until you settle. Until the wave of nausea passes, and the throbbing in your skull is abated by the warm milk and honey smell of him that floods you.

Clumsily, he reaches for a bottle of water he tucked beneath his pillow, eyes lidded and groggy with sleep.

"Drink," he urges, pressing it into your hands.

"I can't drink right now, I'll be sick—"

"Y'need water," he rasps, rubbing his cheek over yours. "Need to drink so you don't get dehydrated."

You huff. "I'll need to sit up for that."

The prospect of moving makes him grumble softly. His arm tightens around you, refusing to let go.

Then he stills.

The curve of his smile on your skin spells trouble. You're already shaking your head before he pops up, smirking. The sleep fades from his eyes in an instant. "I know a way—"

"You'll get sick," you warn, but he's already twisting the cap off, and spilling the water into his mouth

It bulges his cheeks. He looks ridiculous, and you scoff.

"There is no way—"

His lips seal over yours. Water runs down your chin when he pushes it inside the melting cavern of your mouth.

He doesn't need to slip his tongue inside, but he does it, anyway. Nips your lips when he pulls back, eyes glazing over as he watches you sputter and gasp.

His hand settles on your throat. "Swallow it. Got the whole bottle to get through."

His eyes trail over your wet cheeks, darkening when your throat bobs under his hand.

"Good girl," he breathes, and brings the nozzle up to his mouth again. His hand leaves your neck, and slips under the covers. There is a promise in the tips of his fingers when they glide over your molten skin. "We'll work on sweatin' your fever out next, bonnie. You're burnin' up."

—Soap's definition of caretaking is coddling you. He's a firm believer in sweating it out.

—it doesn't surprise you when he sends you several articles about how sex is good for colds, and you only feel slightly bad when his voice cracks a week later.

PRICE—

For a man who lives off of Maduro and scotch, his immune system is surprisingly resilient.

("It's the cigars," he husks, leaking smoke from his pores. "Keeps me in top shape."

You know better than to argue. It's never a battle you'll ever win.)

You, however, do not survive on miracle tobacco and malt.

Price doesn't answer the text you send—sick, can't make it to dinner tonight—but nine times out of ten, he usually doesn't. It doesn't surprise you, and you're not worried. He has other things to do—reports, interviews with new cadets, and planning recon missions for men in precarious situations. You turn your phone over on the coffee table, prop your heels on the edge, pull a blanket over your legs, and turn on the trashiest reality television you can stand.

A cup of tea sits by your ankle. You'd taken some medicine, and expect to be napping in a fugue state for the rest of the day.

It's just a tickle, really. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing that needs immediate attention. You're used to dealing with it alone.

Somewhere between Gemma blinking at the camera in confusion, you fall into a fitful sleep. Plagued by fever demons that ravage your body until you're drenched in sweat, and moaning in discomfort. Everything feels wrong—

A worn, rough hand settles on your brow. Words clipped, gravel thick.

Just gotta let it work itself out, love.

Your stomach churns. You whimper. Arms slide under your knees, bracketed around your back. Flying. Weightless. You sniffle into a warm neck that smells of smoke, and hickory.

Adrift in the sea. The waves lap at your body. You cling to the thing keeping you upright amid the waves that try to drag you under.

It sets you down on a lush shore, sand billowing around you until you're tucked inside a cocoon of sun seared warmth.

It pulls away.

Your hand snaps out. "Please, don't leave me—"

Gritty hisses whisper in your ear. "Shush, shush. M'not goin' anywhere, but you need water and some medicine. Stay here, love. I'll be right back."

You find comfort in the raw, rasping tone. Pitched low, and brassbound. You nod, head carving out a piece of bliss in the sand beneath your head.

It's a blur, really. You remember the weight of a hand holding your head in a plinth, water slipping down your aching throat. A hand brushing back the sweat-slicked hair on your forehead. Dry lips pressed to your crown, susurrus murmurs leaking out into your skin.

You wake up hours later. The island fades into shades of familiarity. There is a weight in your palm. You blink the dredges of fever away, the gossamer of sick that sounds like the waves crashing on the distant shore.

Price. He's sat in an armchair pushed as close to your bed as it'll allow. Your fingers threaded through his. The other hand falls on his lap, resting over a manila folder.

His head dips, chin tucked into his chest. Soft, brassy snores fill your bedroom.

On the table beside you sits two glasses of scotch, a bottle of water, an ashtray, and medicine.

You smell something robust and meaty wafting into the room. On your dresser is a bag of takeaway from the Vietnamese restaurant you were supposed to go to. The heady scent of Pho fills the air.

Your fingers squeeze his, a gentle pulse. Warmth blooms in your chest. The heat is enough to rival your fever.

He stayed.

(He snorts awake a few moments later, and makes you sip the scotch between mouthfuls of the electrolyte water. Good for you, he says. Drink it up, now.

Once you've drunk as much as you could, he hands you the pho, and watches you sip the broth.)

—firm, like everything he does. No room for arguments: he's taking care of you whether you like it or not.

—he keeps you tucked to his chest, and turns on your favourite movies, making snarky comments from the corner of his mouth that make you laugh. You feel instantly better with him by your side.

He, of course, does not get sick.

#godddd im so sorry this took so long!!!!!#im terrible #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty modern warfare #kyle gaz garrick #cod headcanons #gaz headcanons #soap headcanons #price headcanons #captain price x reader #ghost headcanons #simon riley x reader

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