This site has decided that it hates hyphen dividers, so I hate this site.
3: worry (his)
After tossing and turning in bed for a long time, she's finally on the brink of falling asleep when she feels her bed shifting at the side. She opens her eyes and frowns at him.
"Hi," he greets her, grinning widely.
"Go away," she says as she pushes him away weakly. "You're going to get sick."
He's just as terrible about sick people as she is, strict and cautious. Back in high school he bought them matching gloves and masks during flu season as a joke (which she knows they both used very seriously; she probably still has her set somewhere in her apartment). This is why her jaw drops in shock as he sits down comfortably by her hip, on top of the covers, totally unfazed.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, then remembers, "Temperature!" He leans over the side of the bed to reach her drawer, where he knows she keeps her basic medical aid (she'd lectured him and Jenna about basic safety after Jenna sprained her ankle during early rehearsals).
"I've already taken my temperature," she protests, but before she can continue the thermometer is in her mouth.
He presses his fingers against her forehead as he waits for the digital beep. "I've never seen you sick before." He pulls the thermometer out and sighs. "Fever."
"You should get off the bed," she mumbles, turning over to her side. There are good reasons for why he hasn't seen her sick before. They've only been dating for two weeks, this is the first time they've been in a bed together, she looks disgusting, and her voice, which is undeniably her absolute best feature, is clogged and faint, cracking at every other word.
He ignores her and pulls her onto her back again. "You are excellent at looking miserable," he tells her, rolling his eyes. "Have you eaten anything?"
She shakes her head. "Go home," she repeats.
He shrugs in response, pushing himself off the bed. "Sure, if you promise to take care of yourself and eat something now."
She considers this and makes a face at him. "Fine, soup," she says, pulling up her covers. "Then you're leaving."
xx
When she wakes up later that night, her empty soup bowl and spoon have been cleared, and a silver flask is by her bedside. She sits up to reach for it and notices the man sleeping on a chair, leaning against her desk. She peers at him closely. Unlike any other person she's ever seen, Jesse's face doesn't become younger or looser when he's asleep - it actually becomes rougher, toughening like he's determined to reach whatever he's chasing in his dreams. She loves him for it.
It doesn't escape her notice that he's sitting as far away from her as possible, but she's surprised he's even here. She wonders if she would've stayed for him, if he'd been the one with the fever.
Then she spots the mask on the desk, by the side, like he considered wearing it but decided against it. (It's blue, not pink - not hers.)
Yes, she would've stayed.
xx
He's still on the chair when she wakes up again the next morning, but he's closer to the bed as he watches her. "Hi."
"Hi," she whispers. "I thought - "
"You look cold. Are you cold?" There's something in his eyes that she's not used to from him.
"I'm fine." No, she's not; it's gotten worse overnight and she feels like ripping her throat out. She looks away from his eyes quickly and clears her throat. "Leaving?" she asks, noticing that he's rolled down the sleeves of his shirt again.
"I have classes in two hours and my students are paying me," he says, smiling wryly. "I'd better leave." He nods at her bedside table, where there are now two flasks sitting within reaching distance from the bed. "The silver flask has hot water and the black one has some weird mixture I looked up on the internet. And you have six new boxes of Kleenex."
She smiles at him weakly. The smile drops, though, when he steps forward quickly and presses his lips against her forehead. He takes his time to pull away, and it's clear he isn't thinking of himself at all.
"Get better," he says softly. "It's weird when you aren't talking about everything. At hyperspeed."
She doesn't have the energy to muster a playful glare and just smiles again. "Thank you," she says.
He shrugs. "I'll come back tonight with medicine, OK? And I told Jenna to get you off work, so you don't need to call in."
She nods. She closes her eyes, snuggling deeper into her bed, and she feels his hands by her neck as he pulls up the covers, brushes her hair back from her eyes, sweeps his thumbs against the sides of her jaw.
worry (hers)
It isn't until months later that she realises how he'd felt. She drops by his apartment one night and finds him completely exhausted, shaking, and lying against the wall outside his bedroom.
By the time Matt comes over to help him to his room, she's asked him enough and remembered enough (he lost his favourite waterbottle two weeks ago and hasn't had the heart to replace it yet; he'd asked her for lip balm three days ago; he hasn't been eating right for the last few nights) to deduce that he's suffering from dehydration. It's in its early stages, but he's pale, quiet, and weak, and she's unsettled by it.
Matt helps her pull the one-seat couch from the living room into the bedroom. She stays there for the next day, only leaving to buy him more Gatorade. She doesn't pull away when his temperature rises, not even when he tells her he feels nauseous.
Jane, the director at the American production of Mink (they'd gotten close when Rachel called her check up on the show and called back frequently to ensure its quality), tells her she's never seen Rachel look this worried before when she meets her for lunch at a cafe two blocks from Jesse's place.
Truthfully, she doesn't feel at peace until she wakes up one morning on his bed and hears him getting ready for his morning run.