Comfort
Mohinder cursed in every language he knew and some made up on the spot as he frantically fumbled with his keys. His heart dropped down around his knees when the door suddenly swung open on its own accord.
Unlocked.
Weapon…wish I had a weapon…fat lot of good that would do…probably already heard me coming up the elevator. Matt. Oh God, Matt. Please be alive.
The apartment was eerily silent. The calm before the storm?
No one in sight. Where were they? Was he already too late?
He didn't even think about it. With one quick sudden motion, he burst into the bedroom, almost taking the door off of its hinges.
Upon entering, Mohinder stared in confusion. No serial killers to be found. Matt lay in bed, dressed in threadbare flannel pajamas. Surrounded by a towering mountain of tissues, the air damp from the steady spray of the humidifier and smelling strongly of Vicks.
Matt's eyes were the size of dinner plates, his brows located somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. As Mohinder leaned against the much abused frame of the door in relief, the excitement become too much for the patient, and he suddenly doubled over into a wrenching coughing fit.
Finally, several moments later Matt drew in a shuddering breath.
"You sure showed that big mean old door who was boss. My hero."
Oh, this was so not amusing in the least.
"I thought you were in trouble." Mohinder spit out.
"Because…"
"Because you sent me a text message that said 'Help. In trouble. Come quick.'
Matt flopped back against the pillows and shut his eyes.
"Did you happen to read the second text I sent before bursting in guns blazing?"
Mohinder pulled out his phone.
'Help in form of sherbet. Lemon. All out.'
If not for the pitiful sight Matt made, with the comforter pulled up to his chin, completely wrung out, Mohinder might have given into the urge to chuck his phone at the man's head.
"Matthew, this isn't funny. We have a crazed killer on our trail and you think ominous text messages are a good thing?"
Matt stared at him for a beat before comprehension dawned.
"Huh. Alright, I can see how your mind might run in that direction."
Might! Try, did!
"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking clearly, obviously. But, I'm not exactly firing on all cylinders at present. I'm sneezy, sleepy, and dopey. That's three of seven dwarves! Along with two of their lesser known brothers, Achy and Phlegmy."
At Mohinder's glare, Matt sank further back into the pillows.
"Wow. Looks like you've got the market cornered on Grumpy. Please, Mohinder. Angry later. Lemon sherbet, now. It's the only thing that makes my throat feel better."
Mohinder crossed his arms across his chest and fixed his lover with a mock glare. He's going to give in, they both know it. But after the near heart attack Matt inspired, he's not going to do it without a little teasing. Call him a sadist.
"Why should I?"
"Because you love me. Because your heart goes out to me in my weakened state. Because when I'm no longer a walking biohazard I'm totally going to make it worth your while."
Matt grinned at him like a mischievous schoolboy. The smile coupled with his flannel pajamas and hair wildly sticking up had Mohinder instantly melting.
"Fine then. But more for the third reason than anything."
"Liar. You worship me."
With a shake of his head, Mohinder turns around to go back out.
"Wait! Who's going to protect me from the door when you're gone?"
The joke is somewhat ruined by Matt falling into another coughing fit.
Matt woke up to an aching head. He felt woozy and groggy; his throat was sore and his whole body hurt. Being sick sucked. He attempted to shift in the bed, intending to check his face to see if he still had a fever, but found he couldn't move his hands.
Mohinder lay sprawled next to him, the weight of his body holding the comforter tight. Earlier anger evidently completely forgotten, Mohinder was watching him with a look of such love and tenderness, full of so much concern, it made Matt's throat ache for a whole other reason.
Mohinder held up the bowl of lemony heaven like a prize.
"For you. I also got chicken noodle soup, orange juice, cough drops, chamomile tea, and more tissues as you're working your way through the box at an alarming rate."
"Have I told you lately that I love you?"
Matt attempted to reach for the bowl, but Mohinder held it just out of his grasp.
"Open up, Matthew. What's that drivel parents are supposed to say to unruly small children? Open up for the airplane."
Matt glared at his tormentor.
"And I've suddenly changed my mind. I hate you."
But he obediently opened his mouth for the spoon. There's much relief when Mohinder does not elect to make airplane noises. If he had, Matt would have been forced to sneeze on him.
Matt managed half the bowl, his throat not feeling coated in barbed wire for what seems like the first time all day.
Mohinder touched his forehead gently, petting the side of his face and pushing his hair away from his forehead.
"You should try to get more sleep, love."
Matt makes no protest. He's warm and cozy instead of feverish and uncomfortable and his improved state is making him very drowsy.
Instead of leaving, Mohinder lies back down on the bed and curls an arm around Matt's waist, nuzzling at his neck.
"Going to sing me a lullaby?" Matt slurs out, already almost out.
A joke, but Mohinder pulls him closer and begins to softly sing one of the tunes always guaranteed to put Molly back to sleep after one of her nightmares.
The comforting rise and fall of the melody, the knowledge that Mohinder will be there with cool capable hands and whatever else he could need when he wakes up, has Matt asleep within moments.