NB: Hey maripas, I have trouble with Gareki's character, but I promise I'm working on it, okay?
Hirato's bedside manner is abominable.
Things have spun wildly out of control when Akari concludes thus. The physician has been ill for several days, and although he's typically capable of attending to his own needs, a rather high fever has leeched him of surplus energy. Doctors make the worst patients; Akari is no exception. An incurable workaholic, he refuses rest and is often caught reviewing lab reports while a veritable snowfall of crushed tissues litters his desk.
Hirato has had enough. Akari lacks the wherewithal to make rounds but still attempts work. This won't do. So, he endeavors to ensure that the blond is rendered completely incapable of getting out of bed. Soldiers make the worst doctors; Hirato is no exception.
The captain nearly stabs an opaline iris when taking Akari's temperature. His patient bristles. "Don't you have work to do, ships to fly, Varuga to kill, other people to torment?"
"I am exactly where I'm needed."
"It's the flu, not a terminal illness." The physician is glaring now, but even he recognizes that he's not too frightening when propped up on pillows and drowning in blankets.
The commander's rhinestone eyes sparkle mischievously as he studies the thermometer. "100.1. Goodness, doctor. You're burning up." Long fingers settle against a sweat-slicked brow.
"No, you idiot. It's gone down since you last checked."
"We should cool you off. Can't have that amazing brain of yours overheating." Hirato's hand moves to his neck and downward from there, shifting aside bedding and slipping under his t-shirt with practiced skill. Refreshingly cool lips press a kiss against the doctor's forehead before capturing his mouth.
Admittedly it takes some effort, but Akari manages to break away after having lost only his shirt. "Absolutely not, you lecher. You're not helping. And you're going to get sick."
"You poor thing. You must be quite far gone if you're raving like so." That rich baritone is practically dripping mirth as an expert tongue traces chilly trails along Akari's feverish skin. "Now be a good boy and let me take care of you."
The legions of unsuccessful who've ever tried to dissuade Hirato know precisely how this ends.
Hours later, an exhausted blond has been pinned to the mattress by a tangle of long limbs belonging to a very exhausting brunet. Akari places his palm against Hirato's cheek and wonders if its heat is a result of nascent illness or fever of a different sort. "You're warm. I warned you that you'd get sick."
"It's fine. I've long known that you'd be the death of me."
And a rare smile alights the doctor's lips. "There are worse ways to go."