I shouldn't have done it. I should never have gone over there, Jenny Lewis thought as she lay on her couch, eyes closed. Her head was pounding in a steady, aching rhythm, and her sinuses were stubbornly congested, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. The moment Connor said he was sick, I should've said no and gone home.
Two days after she'd taken care of Professor Nick Cutter whilst he had the flu, she'd had a scratchy throat, but she'd brushed it off. She had felt queasy the entire day after that, and after that, she had a fever of 38 degrees and couldn't keep down any solids for her life of her. The stubborn Scot bastard had gotten her sick, she knew it for a fact. Granted, it had almost been worth it, considering that she had been given the opportunity to sleep in the same bed as him. And that she'd found out, in his half-delirious state, that he often had fantasies about them having sex. Jenny even managed to smile, but then she coughed hard, aching in her chest. "Damn you, Cutter!" she moaned softly, curling up deeper in her blankets as another bout of shivers wracked her frame.
"And I came over here to see if you were alright," said an amused voice from the hallway; Jenny sat bolt upright, startled, but then gave a woozy groan, head spinning. Nick stepped closer, reaching out and placing one hand on her shoulder. "Take it easy, now," he said softly.
Jenny laid back on the couch, his hand supporting her back. "What are you doing here?" she asked, sniffling. From her prone position on the couch, he looked a million miles tall, and the light from the hallway behind him made his pale copper hair gleam like a halo, no matter how clichéd it sounded. It was then that her illness-fogged mind realised that he was standing in her living room. "And how'd you get in my house?"
Smiling softly, he leaned his arms on the back of the couch. "Well, I gave you whatever virus I had, so I thought, since you took care of me, I'd return the favour. And I got in your house through the front door, which you left unlocked," he answered. Then he reached down and brushed back a stray curl of her hair, tucking it behind her ear.
She huddled down deeper into her blankets, pulling them up to her nose in sudden embarrassment. God, she must look an absolute fright, no makeup, hair all sleep-mussed, sweaty and pale. But he didn't seem to notice, either, just gave her that small, soft smile that suggested he knew far more than he let on, eyes moving over her face. Then he straightened up, walked around the couch, and came to stand in front of her, crouching down to put them at eye-level. His hand went out again, lightly resting against her forehead. "You are burning up, Jenny Lewis," he said softly; she loved the way he addressed her by her full name like it was some kind of title she'd earned. "Have you eaten anything today?"
She shook her head as best she could. "No. Can't keep it down," she croaked out.
After a moment longer of watching her, he straightened up and left the living room, instead crossing into the kitchen. She couldn't see what he was doing, but she heard the sound of drawers and cabinets being opened, then shut. Oh, God, what's he doing? she thought to herself.
Just as she was about to call out for him, Cutter returned. He had several things tucked in his arms as well, and he crouched beside the couch once more, setting them out on the coffee table as she watched: a bottle of water, a bowl of ice water, a washcloth, a spoon, and a jar of peanut butter, of all things. And he set a small wastebin on the floor beside her as well. "There," he said. "Now for you."
Jenny gave a little squeak as he slid his arms under her, lifting her up. "No, no, no," she protested softly, her whole body protesting movement. He ignored her entirely, sat on the couch, and laid her back down, only this time she had her back to him, head on his chest. "Nick, I'm going to get you sick again," she muttered as another round of coughing shook her frame.
"Nonsense. Can't get the same flu twice," he answered dismissively, settling themselves more comfortably; she wouldn't lie. This was far better than a pillow. With one arm around her, he picked up the washcloth, dipped it in the ice water, wrung it out, and laid it across her forehead. It was blessedly cool and damp, a welcome relief, and she couldn't stop the tiny whimper of pleasure that escaped her lips. Then he picked up the jar of peanut butter and the spoon.
"What's that for?" she asked softly.
"For you. You need to eat something. Mother always gave me peanut butter when I had the flu," he answered matter-of-factly.
Mummy's boy, she thought but didn't say it aloud. "Why? Does it help an upset stomach?"
"Actually, no. But if you vomit, it'll taste the same comin' up as it did goin' down."
Jenny groaned in disgust, pulling a face. "You are so gross!" she moaned; she could feel the rumble in his chest as he laughed, the sound soft and rusty with misuse.
"Maybe, but I'm still right. Now, open your mouth," he said, holding a spoonful of peanut butter in front of her. Wanting to be stubborn and refuse but too tired to do so, she obeyed. With her nose stopped up, it didn't taste like much of anything at all, but she still ate a few bites, washed down with a swallow of water. With a quiet sigh, she reclined against him, and he slid an arm around her waist. And for a long while, that was all they did. Neither felt much inclination to talk, and the telly remained off. Jenny snuggled herself close to his warm body, feeling his heartbeat under her cheek. He stroked her tangled hair, occasionally taking the washcloth from her forehead and dunking it back into the ice water to keep it cold. Every now and again, he'd coax her into eating a few more bites of peanut butter. To her surprise, it actually stayed down—hopefully she wouldn't find out if it really did taste the same coming up.
When she glanced at the clock, Jenny realised with a start that he'd been there nearly four hours; it was dark outside, barely pink in the western sky with stars appearing elsewhere. Clearing her throat, she spoke. "Shouldn't you be going home soon?"
Cutter was silent for so long she nearly thought he'd fallen asleep, but then he sighed softly, warm breath ruffling her hair. "Do you want me to go?" he asked.
She stopped. Did she want him to go? No, she thought to herself. She didn't want him to get up and leave her all by herself, miserable and sick on her couch. His being there made her feel better, just his presence alone able to strengthen her. He was warm and comfortable and safe. She curled her fists around his shirt and nuzzled into his chest. "No," she murmured. "I want you to stay."
"Then I'll stay," he replied. "Jenny Lewis…."
She tilted her head up to look at him. "Yes, Nick Cutter?"
He was quiet, obviously struggling for the proper words. After a moment, he sighed and ran one hand back through his already-mussed hair, raking the pale red-gold strands back from his face. Those familiar blue eyes moved down to her face, and then he bent slightly, just enough for his lips to touch hers. Jenny's lashes fell shut, and her hand came up, found the back of his hair, and pulled his head back down to hers. The kiss was warm and soft and so very sweet; all her aches were forgotten in a second. When they broke apart again, she had to pull in a breath, slightly lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. "You'd better get well soon, Jenny Lewis," he said softly, his voice deeper and huskier than it had been.
She smiled back and nuzzled closer to him. "Yes, sir, Professor." Experimentally, she stretched slightly and found that all her joints weren't as painfully stiff anymore. "I actually am starting to feel better."
"Told you the peanut butter would work," he said. Lightly kissing her forehead, he sat up, slid out from under her, and went into the kitchen once again. "Now, if I'm staying here, we ought to find something halfway decent to watch. Ever seen Star Wars?" he called, raising his voice slightly to be heard.
Star Wars? Is he serious? What do I look like, Connor? she thought to herself, shaking her head. "No, I haven't seen Star Wars before, Nick," she sighed softly.
He walked back in, smiling. In his hands was a plate of crisps and sandwiches. "Well, you're in luck. There just so happens to be a marathon on the movie channel tonight," he answered, and she groaned softly, trying to huddle down deeper into the blankets, and silently glared at him. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice," he admonished softly. "Besides, the Force will help you get better."
She rolled her eyes and sat up to let him lay down once again. Instead of arguing, though, she placed her head on his chest and nibbled on a crisp; he took up the remote and turned on the telly. As the Star Wars theme song started playing, she snuggled closer to him. "You're lucky that I like you, Cutter," she murmured quietly.
"Yeah, you 'like' me. That's why you just put your tongue down my throat," he laughed.
"Shut up, did not! You kissed me first," she added.
"But you kissed me back."
"Shut up and watch the film."