It happened after they arrived back to Soap’s lonely flat. Their bodies had been long adjusted to the heat, after they deployment to some desert down south. They arrived towards the end of fall, where the rain was frigid like ice but it wasn’t quite cold enough to be snowflakes yet. They’d been caught out in the heavy rain too, Ghost muttering under his breath as Soap tugged him along.
Soap didn’t comment on the slight jump he felt beneath his fingers or how Ghost’s pulse raced beneath his thumb as lightning struck in the distance.
Soap, apparently, had forgotten to close one of the windows the last time he had been home, because when they walked in, it was no warmer than outside. In fact, it was even colder.
When they were both settling into bed, bodies only slightly warmed up from the tepid water of the shower, it’s pipes unused and sputtering out cold water at first that made Soap yelp, Ghost had suddenly turned his body away, stiffening.
“Simon?” Johnny asked, reaching out a hand when suddenly the most violent, ground-shaking sound that would put thunder to shame, erupted from Ghost.
There was silence. And then, Johnny burst into laughter.
“Was.. was that a fookin sneeze?” Johnny could barely get the words out from how hard he was cackling. Ghost whipped around to glare at him, but before he could, he sneezed again. And again. And again. Each time, the bed shook, and Ghost’s damp curls smacked against his face. John was laughing so hard, he could feel the tears gather in his eyes, one hand slapping the bed while the other clutched at his aching stomach.
“Shut up,” Ghost grumbled, swiping his nose. He stretched languidly, popping his jaw before he let his body drop against the bed. Johnny hissed when Simon’s wet curls slapped against the bare skin of his arm, gently flicking Simon’s ear. “It’s bloody cold in here.”
Smirking, Johnny leaned down, placing a sloppy wet kiss to Simon’s forehead, “Aye, but ah’ll keep ya warm.” He chuckled again when Simon tiredly swatted at him, scowling as he rubbed his forehead clean. He only just turned away in time to sneeze again.
Man, Soap should of known.
The next morning, Soap woke up uncomfortably warm, the bare skin of his legs sticking together. It wasn’t unusual to wake up decently warm; Soap always ran hot, and Simon normally made him into his own personal heater, sticking blankets around them like he was a god damn bird building a nest. But this was different; The heat was radiating from Simon, this time.
Soap frowned, blearily turning to face Simon. He was tucked against Soap’s side, half his face hidden. The other half was twisted in a look of discomfort, sweat sticking his curls to his forehead. Even in his sleep, he was sniffling, one hand twisting anxiously in the bedsheets.
“Oh, ya lug, gone ‘nd got sick,” Johnny sighed, reaching out to push Simon’s curls from his face. He gently untangled himself from the sheets, stretching and then wincing. The apartment, though significantly warmer, was still unpleasant in the morning.
Soap didn’t get sick a lot. Sure, he got aches and pains and sniffles, but he mostly got sick as a kid when he did stupid shit, like ate dirt (it was a dare), or threw himself butt-naked in the snow, twice (also a dare), or ate some definitely, totally not at all moldy food. He likes to pretend he was dared to do that, but he wasn’t.
But he has picked up a few ways to kick a cold on it’s ass, which Soap was pretty sure Simon only had a cold. Frowning, Soap rested the back of his hand to Simon’s forehead, who sighed in his sleep at the cold touch. Yup, definitely warm but not enough to cause much concern. Time to break out the good ol’ home remedies, Johnny thought, preparing to leave the house.
Back from his quick trip to grab some groceries for his oh-so-famous soup, that no one but him ever had, he called out to the still dark apartment, “Simon!” There was a muffled response coming from the bedroom. He sat his treasures on the kitchen, kicking off his shoes and jacket, making his way to the bedroom.
“Si?” John smiled, looking at the mound of blankets on the bed. They shuffled at the sound of his voice and he could just barely make out the mop of awkwardly dried curls peaking from under the comforters. “It’s a dreich day, love,” Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over to ruffle Simon’s hair. There was a sniffle. Peaking his head out, Simon looked at him blearily. For someone who was well over 6 feet and built like a brick wall, capable of incredible acts of violence, he looked a lot like a milk-drunk kitten, eyes heavy with sleep and a small frown.
“It’s cold without you,” Simon said. His words were dry, throat undoubtedly sore and scratchy.
“Hadta buy some stuff. Ya eejit done got sick,” Johnny smiled, leaving over to press a small kiss to Simon’s cheek. He hummed in response, eyes closing as he leaned into the touch.
“’m not sick.” The words would have been much more convincing had Simon not suddenly turned away, hit by a sudden sneeze-fest. John stared at him, one eyebrow raised smugly as he fought a smile.
“Yer aff yer heid,” Johnny laughed at the put-out expression. “Ah’ll be in da kitchen. Get rest.” He wasn’t even fully out the door when he heard the quiet snuffling of a sleeping Simon.
Time to get cooking.
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