Happy New Year, everybody!
I've spent these days re-watching most of season 1, and had a fangirl moment when I realized that one of the judges for Sectionals is played by Anna Camp, who later starred in Pitch Perfect. I may be slow, but it was a fun moment regardless. Also, I realized Britanny isn't even in the first episode of Glee? I love going back and rewatch, still new things to discover and scenes I see differently because we know what happens in later seasons. Oh well, enough drama analysis, I'm just enjoying binge-rewatching seasons 1 to 5, and will finally see season 6 when I get through all of that.
Svallkille prompted I continue number 5, "Just What The Doctor Ordered".
During the advent time, I started writing two stories based on plots I thought would be quick, but turned out to be more than just drabbles. I don't know if I should finish them, or abandon them in favour of returning to my two WIPs. Any preferences from my readers?
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.
"I'm not sick!"
The hoarse voice that breaks at the end of the sentence to skyrocket at least an octave challenges that particular statement.
"You're not leaving this bed," Kurt commands, and pushes Blaine back to his pillows. His stupid, stupid fiancé thought he was going to work today. He'd stumbled into their shared bed some time after 2 AM – Kurt hadn't managed to open his eyes enough to look properly at the alarm on his nightstand, but it had said 02:something-something. Conditioned by years of habits, Kurt had half-asleep turned over and pulled Blaine closer, offering his big spoon-qualities for his over-worked Dr. Übermensch. Blaine had been shivering in his arms until Kurt's body heat seeped into him, but he hadn't thought much of it. Cold, windy, rainy November nights could freeze anyone on their trek home from the subway.
But in the morning, Kurt had started to worry. Blaine had slept through his alarm clock, which never ever happened. Blaine was the most considerate gentleman, and had a well-developed knack to spare Kurt from too many brutal awakenings by reacting to his alarm instantly. They both had various schedules and rhythms, with Blaine working various shifts at the hospital and Kurt alternating between rehearsals and performances. Currently, Kurt is on the stage six nights a week – and one Saturday matinee. So Blaine tries not to disrupt his sleep when he has to get up insanely early for his morning shifts. Last night had been an exception, stepping up to do extra hours to cover for a colleague who just became a dad, giving him the possibility to spend some time with his brand new family. Kurt's own Dr. Nightingale, too kind for his own good sometimes, and one of the reasons Kurt is so madly in love with him.
Blaine understands his man's need for beauty sleep to maintain his skin and hair, not to mention how it is necessary to maintain the patience needed to deal with the diva currently acting against him (in more ways than one), a man so high maintenance and self-absorbed he makes Sophomore-Rachel seem like a toddler (and Kurt knows this for sure, having witnessed and compared them from first row earlier). So when Blaine isn't out of bed within the first few bars of his alarm, Kurt knows something is wrong. He'd rolled closer to Blaine, who'd separated from him during the night. His moist t-shirt stuck to his entire back, and when Kurt touched his forehead, he knew where to cook scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. Blaine woke up when Kurt started fussing, and of course panicked thinking he'd overslept. And that's where they currently are, Kurt trying to make his own personal doctor-fantasy realize that he can't go to work when he looks sicker than his own patients.
"'m not that sick," Blaine objects, and flails uselessly with his legs to untangle from the covers he somehow is trapped in.
"I'm getting the thermometer and letting that be the judge of that," Kurt snorts, feeling confident about the outcome. He shuffles to the bathroom, still not entirely awake himself, and on his way his blather reminds him about its morning needs. He might as well brush his teeth when he's out of his bed.
So it takes him a couple of minutes to return to their bedroom, and there he finds Blaine sitting in bed. Well, he's sort of sitting, leaning heavily against the bedpost, with one leg folded under himself, and the other more or less shoved into scrubs. The top part.
"Okay mister, you're not going anywhere before this little thingy reaches its verdict," Kurt grins, and tries to tug the scrub top off of Blaine's foot.
"It's Doctor Anderson," Blaine mumbles, and fidgets so much with his foot that Kurt worries he'll get kicked in his face. That shiner would not be a good look on stage.
"Open up," Kurt sing-songs, waving the thermometer in front of Blaine's face. "And it will soon be Doctor Anderson-Hummel," Kurt winks, to which Blaine instantly beams as if Kurt was the sun and the cure to cancer and calorie-free cronuts all in one. He lifts a hand to place over Kurt's heart.
"Now, open up those pretty lips, or this will be the last time I ever insert anything in any of your orifices."
Blaine looks at him with comically big eyes, and a jaw gravitating towards his knees.
"Good," Kurt smirks, and shoves the meter into his mouth.
"ex rrrrr gnn?" Blaine tries to ask. Kurt sits down next to his silly fiancé, and thinks how true it is that doctors make for the worst patients. He wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs the covers over both laps.
"You will always be my Dr. Dapper, and you are very well aware of what it does to me to see you in that white coat with one of your many, many whimsical bowties. But right now I'll bet my latest McQueen-coat that you are currently a patient. I will care for you, I will feed you, I will bath you, and I will even help you with the facilities. But I will not blow you until you are at 100.3 or below."
Blaine looks at him with amused eyes, wiggles his eyebrows, and scoots a little closer, brushing his hip against Kurt's.
"Oh my God, I will not fuck you either!" Kurt laughs. "Nor will you do anything to me," he hurries to add, knowing how Blaine loves to find loopholes in their… debates.
Blaine exaggeratedly deflates, and leans into Kurt's embrace. He runs a hand through his sweaty curls, a total mess after his fever-hot night.
"Even superheroes need sick-days," Kurt murmurs, and Blaine hums something.
He forgot to clock the time, because Blaine is the undisputed medical expert in this relationship, and nine out of ten times Kurt is the one who's sick or injured, but he extricates the thermometer when he thinks it's been long enough. He studies the little display, and grins triumphantly.
"101 blank," he exclaims, and looks pointedly at Blaine. "You are sick, Mister," he says, deliberately demoting him to a civilian.
"I'm sick!" Blaine pouts, and oh God, there came the puppy eyes.
"I'm sorry you're sick, honey," Kurt murmurs. The joy of winning this bet is instantly replaced by sympathy for his fiancé. Fortunately, living with a doctor means he's thoroughly instructed in situations like these, and they have a well-stocked medicine cabinet. "Get under the covers, and I'll make it all better, okay?"
"Blowjob?" Blaine murmurs with a teasing twinkle in his eyes.
"Not that much better," Kurt snorts. "But I can provide you with pain killers, a cold washcloth, something to rehydrate with, and I'd be willing to find some cheesy Star Wars-fanfiction to read for you. I know you've bookmarked a few new updates by your favourite authors."
"I love you," Blaine whispers.
"I love you too, germs and all," he says, and leaves to get the before-mentioned supplies. When he returns, Blaine is fast asleep. Kurt leaves everything on his nightstand, before tiptoeing to the other side of their bed. The good thing about not being a professional doctor is that there are no restrictions against cuddling with your patients. And if Blaine should happen to give him whatever he's gotten, Kurt thinks he could deserve a few days off from the theatre. It would give his understudy excellent experience, dealing with Jesse St. James and his primadonna-attitude.