It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic, always has been, but he really feels it now, wrapped in blankets and shivering and hardly able to keep his eyes open, sat on his stupid new couch in his stupid new apartment because he went out to the kitchen to try and make himself something warm to drink and managed to wear himself out so thoroughly he couldn’t make it back to the bedroom. At least he’s got his ‘pad with him. And some blankets. Fox wishes he’d been able to make that tea, though, or maybe get a thermopad. Hemlock had set him up with a few nice electric ones when he’d been discharged last week.
Two weeks ago?
He’s not sure. He hasn’t been on his own, at least. Quinlan’s been coming over. Quinlan’s coming over later, which is good, because Fox doesn’t think he’s felt this bad since catching pneumonia a year back.
He draws the blankets tighter around him. Gods, he’s so cold. So cold and so tired…
Fox doesn’t wake up to the beep of the keycard scanner. He doesn’t wake up to Quinlan’s keys in the door, the old-fashioned set that works the deadbolt. He doesn’t wake up to Quinlan taking his boots off or putting his things down in the kitchen. He doesn’t wake up until Quinlan’s right in front of him, crouched down next to the couch with a concerned frown on his face and a hand on Fox’s thigh.
That’s not good. He shouldn’t have—he should have noticed—he—
“Fox, hey, it’s just me.” Quinlan’s other hand comes up to press Fox’s shoulders gently back against the couch. “Just me, Fox. You’re okay.”
“What?” His head is spinning. He’s so cold, so cold and everything hurts and how did Quinlan get in without him noticing?
“You’re okay,” Quinlan repeats. His face, close and concerned, swims before Fox’s eyes. “You were sleeping pretty hard. I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sorry.”
“‘S okay,” Fox rasps. His mouth feels fuzzy. His heart, which has been through altogether too much in the past few years, hammers in his sore chest. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Quinlan straightens. “You look terrible, baby.”
“Thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
Fox does know. He feels terrible, too. “Sorry.”
“Fox…”
For a second, Quinlan’s face crumples and Fox thinks he’s going to get a lecture about apologizing too much. He’s too cold for that, too cold and too achy and too bone-deep exhausted, so when Quinlan takes a step forward and clambers up onto the couch instead, he breathes a sigh of relief.
He’s less relieved when a quiet, “Please hold me,” makes its way out of his mouth but, well, he’s only so strong and Quinlan is very, very warm.
“Of course, Foxy. Come’ere.”
Fox falls into his open arms, hiding his face in Quinlan’s chest and letting him rearrange them until they’re lying horizontal on the couch, both of them draped in blankets and Quinlan’s heart beating strong and steady under Fox’s ear.
He still hurts, he’s still cold, this is still pathetic, but Quinlan’s hand is in his hair and his lips are on Fox’s forehead and his warmth is everywhere, in all of his weak places, and Fox can’t help but slip off to sleep again.