There were two hours left before his engagement with Oliver that night when his phone buzzed. Thinking it was Annalise or one of the idiots he worked with (or for…) he was half tempted to turn the damn thing off and claim something to the effect of plausible deniability… but then he saw the name.
Hey Connor, I'm so sorry, have the worst possible timing but I just got sent home from work, I'm pretty sure I'm contaminating the train by simply breathing and I'm really not going to be good company tonight. Can we do next week instead? – O
He even rambled in his texts. Connor sighed. Feeling sick?
Understatement of the century, came the fast response.
Connor suddenly felt very uncomfortable… Was that sympathy? Was that it?... The poor guy couldn't seem to catch a break lately – he'd been almost harder to catch than that fucking Snorlax the last few weeks… Maybe he was just disappointed… but why would he be? It's not like… okay, sure, the sex was fine, great… amazing, even… but…
No. No, he wasn't getting attached. Not happening.
You gonna be alright in that cold apartment of yours by yourself?
… He held his breath as he pressed send, not sure why he was still flirting. If Oliver were sick…
I'm not going to be patient zero and have you and all your workmates hate me. I'll be fine. – O
Well, yeah. He did say he didn't want company.
Connor kicked off his work shoes, collapsing back onto his couch and pulling up a lecture recording on his computer. It was probably better than getting all the way there and having to just turn and run back… or fetch tissues or something all night… right?
Contracts was freaking ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And whoever declared that verbal contracts should be a thing – and actually built cases on it – deserved to be shot. No doubt about it.
"…prevented from being put into writing by the fraud of a party thereto, any other party who is by such fraud led to believe that it is in writing…"
"What?! If you live in a council flat beside a river but are not blind… What?" He'd been staring at this too long. This wasn't even hard legalese. "Why don't they just say if the contractor is a dick, you're fine? Makes my life so much easier…" Running his hands through his hair, he was thoroughly grateful for the buzzing of his phone.
… So I'm pretty sure I just lost a lung. Sorry again for cancelling but I'm really glad you aren't here to witness this. – O
Connor raised an eyebrow. So why are you texting me?
… Uh… Took some flu meds? I can't be held accountable for my actions right now. – O
I don't think they're doing much though. – O
Connor shook his head, torn. Would it be weird if he invited himself over…? Was that… was that a boyfriend only thing? Or a friend thing?
… Yep, there goes my other lung. – O
You still breathing there?
There was a longer pause before the muddled response. Yeah, thinks Yusef. - O
The IT man didn't seem capable of anything right now… and would be all alone… and could probably use with some cheering up… and, well, it was kind of nice, the thought of being able to look after him and watch him all…
Stop. Alright, enough.
Connor grabbed his laptop and notebook, shrugging into a jacket and heading out the door. Pushed away or not, Oliver needed company. And so on his way he went.
Connor paused outside the door, plastic bags in hand, and knocked gently. He could hear running water and coughing, but it cut off, and footsteps padded slowly over.
"I'mb sorry, I've takend everythigg but I cad't get quieter, I kndow you wandt to mburder mbe." The door opened, revealing a very pale and red-nosed Oliver… with a mouth that dropped from bashful to surprised faster than a politician retracts a statement. "You're ndot mby ndeighbour."
"No." Connor smirked. "But I brought soup?" He held up the plastic bag. "It's not exactly chicken noodle or homecooked but I had to bring something."
Oliver looked oddly touched by the thought. "You… brought soup?"
"Well, if you're as sick as you sound by text…" Connor reached a hand out for the man's forehead – it was sweaty but not overly warm – "I couldn't just leave you here."
"So you are humband add ndot just a sex mbachinde."
He sounded so stuffed up… Connor rolled his eyes, trying to keep the sympathy off his face. He couldn't get over how utterly (adorable) miserable Oliver looked, shrouded in… was that his hoodie?
Goddamn those thoughts.
But then Oliver turned to the side, head ducked into his elbow as he coughed, harsh and hacking, and Connor instantly dropped his mask and pulled a face. "Alright, let's get you sitting." Oliver was still going as he wrapped an arm around him, pulling him back into the room and over to the couch. Quick as a flash, he pulled out a bottle of water, handing it over. "You actually do sound like you're dying."
"Thandks," Oliver wheezed, accepting the water with a shaking hand. "Why'd you combe?"
"I had to see the biohazard for myself," were the words that came from his mouth, but his mind was in a completely different place… Because he cared, because he wanted to look after him, because that's what boyfriend's did for each other?
… Boyfriends? Shit. Where'd that come from?
Oliver shook his head, collapsing back and letting Connor take his weight, his back pressed into Connor's chest. "If you mbake mbe laugh, I swear to God…"
"No laughing." Connor held his hands up. "Have you eaten? Because, you know, I can do a pretty mean microwaved pumpkin soup…"
Oliver moaned, coughing a little more into his hands. "Ndot hud… hug… Ndo food. Damnb, I cad't speak."
Poor thing. Half-aware of his actions, Connor pressed a kiss to his temple. "You need something, Ol. Come on, let me up… and then we'll work on getting you feeling better, hmm?"
"You're ndot hondestly codsidering sex right ndow, are you?"
"No! No." He had come over with that in the back of his mind, but to be honest, he was surprised that Oliver had made it to the door in the first place. "I just… you're miserable and I want to help?"
Weak, Connor. So weak. Why can't you just admit that you care about the guy?
"Soup's ndot a good idea though, ndot ndow…" Oliver nuzzled his head back, wriggling into the niche between neck and shoulder. "I, uh… I don't kndow if it's the bug or the mbeds or the coughing but I, uh… mbay have thrown up a little before?"
"Jesus, you are sick. Good thing I drove…" Well, there went the soup idea. Not that he was looking forward to spoon-feeding the guy or anything (wait WHAT). He cast his eye around, looking at all the crumpled Kleenexes littering the coffee table… and shifted sideways, pulling a blue tub from the grocery bag. "Have you ever used this? It might help clear you out a bit."
And, yeah, this is dangerously into more-than-screwing territory here…
Oliver shook his head, snuffling.
"Here, it's wonderful." Connor opened the tub, waving it in front of Oliver's nose. "I don't know if you can smell it or not but it's – "
"… Eucalyptus?"
"Yeah, menthol." Finally he managed to push himself back. "Lie on your stomach, take your sweater off and I'll help you."
And like a small child, Oliver agreed. With Connor's help he tugged the hoodie and singlet underneath up and over his head (and Connor was not staring at his traps as he did so, no, he was not) and lay on the couch. Picking up the tub, Connor straddled his back, kneeling over him (oh sweet JESUS) and running his fingers over the tan skin… Without any ointment at all, the skin was already so soft and smooth, and if he weren't in such a precarious situation he could easily have just stayed there, just like that, feeling the electricity crackle from his fingertips as he worked into the knots near his shoulders, traced down the bumps of his spine… (Connor, what the hell are you thinking?!)
Oliver actually moaned the instant their skin met, the scent filling the air. He seemed to visibly relax, the top of his arms dropping down that bit further… They jerked when he coughed moments afterwards, but even that seemed easier somehow, less taxing on the man. So he continued, tracing circles and lines, writing his name and wishes to the stars with the Vicks, covering his ribs and back before stretching up to kiss the nape of his neck, right where his hair disappeared.
"Do you want me to do your chest too?"
His head turned to the side, resting on his hand, he could see Oliver smile, eyes at half-mast. "You're gonnda put mbe to sleep…"
"Then let me. You need it."
This is weird. This is weird. This is not mindless screwing, Connor, and you know it.
Shoving thoughts to the side, he smiled down at the man underneath him, doing the exact same thing to his front. Doing this, sharing this, the gentleness, the… the caring, the whatever else this could be labelled… It was sort of nice. It was nice to have to look after someone, rather than save them. It was nice that someone trusted him that much again… He didn't know if he could after James, but… maybe… maybe this is something to explore?
Maybe not-so-mindlessly-screwing was something to try again…
He helped Oliver back up and into the clothing again, fetching a fresh box of Kleenex before dropping back on the couch, the heavily-scented man once again in his arms, forehead touching his chin.
"So… you should probably be in bed right now…"
"Too combfortable," Oliver protested weakly. "Add I did probise you I wouldn't be good compadny."
"That you did." Connor gave him a squeeze. "You want to sleep here? I can't sing but I can recite contract laws at you…"
Oliver didn't laugh… or react. He was already drifting away on some faraway cloud.
"Well… Goodnight then."
And as he hummed lullabies from a forgotten past, Connor suddenly made up his mind. Maybe… just maybe… he was ready to give this boyfriend thing a try.
Okay... This ran away from me a bit... Another Tumblr post in response to the Connor sick!fic I posted, asking if I could do one for Oliver... which bore this. Hope it's what you were after!
Feel free to shoot prompts my way, as always, or just come say hi. I love talking to everyone out there and getting to know this crazy fandom!
Like it? Hate it? Want my next role to be translating contract legalese into Easy English? Please let me know!
Keep smiling! :D