Author's Note: Attack of the fluff-beast... Soap/Archer bit. Why Archer? Because of ekaterina2's gorgeous depictions of him over on DeviantArt. :D (Also, should this chapter manage to get me to 300 reviews on this particular story, I'll take requests via PM or email (listed on my profile) and I'll pick and/or poll one and/or more concepts.)

Archer had a bad habit of sleeping very, very soundly during his down-time; he was notoriously difficult to wake up when he no longer had to worry about getting shot. John rarely tried walking him up once he fell asleep because it was generally a wasted venture. Soap was quite the opposite, finding that he, under all circumstances, was a terribly light sleeper. In fact, Ian being such a heavy, hardly-moving sleeper helped John stay asleep. The Captain had dealt with people who like to toss and thrash in their sleep and it inevitably kept him wide awake all night. So when Ian started sweating and kicking at the blankets while breathing short and heavy just before bolting to the bathroom, John was awake and very deeply concerned.

Ian hated being sick. He hated it with a passion people usually reserved for Nazis or terrorists, so he made sure he was rarely sick. Illness always got its revenge, however, as when he did get sick, it was usually of the violent variety. This time was no exception, as he knelt over the toilet, vomiting for a solid thirty seconds and then dry-heaving for another two minutes following. He flushed the toilet and shakily got to his feet, rinsing his mouth with water to try battling the taste of bile. That somehow made things worse, as he was immediately back over the toilet, stomach clenching and heaving, making his back hurt. When he was done this time, his everything hurt. Or... Or had he hurt like that when he got out of bed? He groaned and leaned against the side of the bathtub, the cool porcelain press feeling brilliant against his skin.

"I told you to get the flu shot," John murmured. He opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the thermometer.

"You'd better hope it isn't the bloody flu, because then you'll be in my position before long," Archer snapped.

"I doubt it. Unlike you, I got the flu shot."

John sat on the pristine white floor next to his lover and jammed the thermometer in his mouth. Ian tipped his head back and closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing and not the terrible, looming threat of being sick again. The high-pitched beeping from the thermometer made Archer's head hurt, and John gently took the thermometer from his mouth.

"Thirty-nine point two. Your body aching?"

"Every-fucking-where."

"Generally or worse at the joints?"

"Knees and elbows feel the worst, if that's what you're driving at." Archer's statement was punctuated with a sudden, violent coughing fit.

"Congratulations, Ian. You've got the flu."

"Piss off, bloody fucking prick."

"Are you alright to stand, or do you think that'll make things worse?"

"I'll be fine."

Ian staggered into the living room, where he promptly dropped onto the couch and pulled a blanket around his hunched shoulders, fighting against the urge to run right back into the bathroom and try puking again. He closed his eyes, still shivering, still wishing he could go to sleep. John saw him pale and shoved a mop bucket into the sniper's hands just in time. John sighed and rubbed at his eyes. It was three in the morning on a Saturday and his lover had the flu.

John stayed awake with him, put the television on paid advertisements, rubbed his back while he heaved pointlessly like clockwork every twenty minutes. Ian, for as much as he had endured in his chosen line of work, was on the verge of tears when his body finally gave in and he nearly passed out against the Captain's side at seven.

"Phone. ... Phone! ... PHONE!"

Simon opened one eye and glared at Gary, who was trying to burrow into the mattress to escape the sound of the Lieutenant's phone. Just to be a prick, Simon answered it on speaker phone.

"Yes, lover who's better at sexing than Gary," Simon answered sarcastically. He was hit with a pillow for his trouble.

"Ian's sick."

"No playful banter in return? He must be really bad off."

"It's the flu."

"Didn't you tell him to get the shot," Simon asked around a yawn.

"When was the last time Ian willingly set foot in a medical facility for his own injuries or illnesses?"

"Point. Where's he now?"

"Finally fell asleep. Been puking since three. Look, you know how Ian gets when he's sick..."

"Don't worry about it. Bug and I will be by in a few hours with soup and those sports drinks that are supposed to keep you from dying of dehydration," Simon promised.

"Thanks, Riley."

"No problem. But you owe me."

"I'm not dressing in drag and hiding in a cake for Gary's birthday."

"Well that wasn't on the table before, but I'll take that to mean it is now."

"Goodbye, Lieutenant."

Ghost put his cellphone down on the nightstand and turned back to Roach.

"What?"

"Why would you even suggest getting John dressed up in drag and inside a cake for my birthday? You know he doesn't have the legs for that kind of ensemble. If it had to be one of the two of them, at least make it Ian."

"You're a sick fuck, you know that?"

"Oh please. I'm not the one who suggested-"

"I know what I've suggested. If you're going to keep being so rude, you can go back to sleep."

"Because there was definitely a better option in there, yeah."

"Well I was going to suggest another round..."

"We've been fucking almost non-stop since we stumbled through the door at ten last night."

"Is that an 'I can't keep up' or just a standard no?"

"Oh, we'll see who can't keep up..."

John let his head drop against the back of the couch and he closed his eyes, keeping Ian pressed tight against his side, praying his fever would break soon. He loved Ian, he did, but God forbid the sniper ever get sick. It wasn't that he whined or complained. In fact, the exact opposite was the problem; Archer refused to act sick or hurt, even if he was. That made taking care of him incredibly difficult because he would never confess that anything was wrong.

Archer slept rather soundly for someone so sick, though he did wake up from time to time to ask if there were any more blankets in the house. By the time Simon and Gary showed up at nearly ten-thirty, Ian was bundled up in every blanket they owned, curled up against John, still shaking.

"I made lazy here get up and make the chicken soup from scratch," Simon said, nodding to his lover.

Gary was holding a large pot of slightly tepid soup.

"Ja. Made just as mein mutter made in die old world," Roach said with a poor German accent and a goofy grin.

Simon slapped the back of his head with a mutter that he should act his age. Soap chuckled at the pair of them before slowly wriggling out from under Ian. The sniper frowned and sniffled in his sleep, but made himself comfortable and showed no other signs of wakefulness.

"I brought aspirin for his fever, decongestants for everything else, some of this nasty pink bismuth shite for the upset stomach, ginger ale, the yellow sports drinks because he says the red tastes awful and the blue has a funny after-taste, and we brought a few movies," Simon listed the items in the bags he carried as he walked them into the kitchen.

"He's got the flu, not the plague," Roach muttered.

"You're right. But I'm used to dealing with melodramatic you," Ghost huffed.

"I'm nowhere near as melodramatic as you."

"I appreciate you two bringing all this over, but if you manage to wake Ian up with your arguing, I won't hesitate to throw you out into the street without so much as a thank you," Soap reminded them.

They put the pot of soup on the stove on a low setting to get it warmed back up. They spoke in hushed tones until the soup was hot enough to present to Archer without fear of being called 'idiot muppets'. He wasn't a particularly picky eater, but he said that eating soup cold or even lukewarm was a crime against humanity that he refused to take part in.

Ian opened his eyes very slowly, trying to wade through layers of sickness and exhaustion. His eyes were open long before they were focused, but he eventually managed to get it together. John prodded him to sit up, and he did, if only to make the annoying Scottish bastard shut up for five seconds. He stared down at his hands for a few long seconds before the smell of soup registered with him. It was Gary's soup. He sipped at a spoonful of the broth, still trying to wake up a little more before he really tried eating.

Sanderson swore that it was his soup that made everything better; it was real chicken, egg noodles, carrots, onions, celery, chicken stock... It was something his mother used to make him when he was sick, and something he used to make his sisters when they were sick. It took only the slightest hint of salt and maybe a sprinkling of pepper if that was your thing, but it was generally perfect without fucking with it.

Archer sipped at the tiny bit of soup he'd been given. He was prepared to complain at the "child's portion" when he was handed the soup, but by the time he'd made it about a quarter of the way through, he was appreciative of Soap's foresight. He pushed the bowl away and was handed a bottle of cold ginger ale. He sipped at it for a moment before eventually putting it down and curling back up on the couch under his fort of blankets.

"If you need anything else, let us know," Simon whispered as he pushed Gary outside. John nodded silently as he nestled back down in the couch next to his lover.

Ian only slept for about an hour longer before he decided to take some medicine and watch a little television.

"Still feeling awful?"

"Maybe a little."

Soap changed the channel to a show about restoring antique cars and pulled Archer a little closer. Ian coughed violently to the point of gagging and finding himself completely incapable of regaining his breath. John handed him a bottle of water and warned him to take small sips. Archer obeyed, this time, and again flopped bonelessly against the Captain, unable to support himself.

"Okay. Maybe I feel really terrible," Ian gasped.

John murmured an apology and rubbed soothing circles on Ian's back, pulling the Brit over onto his lap. Archer had always been pretty small, especially compared to John; Ian was comparatively short and thin, someone who could hold his own well enough in a fight, but still looked like he could be overpowered. That was honestly one of the first things that attracted the Captain to him, how it looked like the Brit could probably benefit from someone keeping an eye on him, but he didn't necessarily need it. John kept him close as he sniffled and shivered, completely unconcerned with possibly catching the flu himself.

Ian didn't leave his lover's lap, except to go to the bathroom or get something else to drink, though if he was getting up to trek into the kitchen, John usually pushed him back down onto the couch and got whatever he was after for him. Under normal circumstances, Ian would gripe and complain about being pampered and babied, but he had a hard time remaining standing for any serious length of time, and his muscles continued to ache and his joints screamed. He took another painkiller and chased it with more cold medication. He spent a great deal of time on MacTavish's lap, not moving, hardly awake.

Soap took care of Archer well into the evening, gently forcing soup past his lips, convincing him that yes, he did need to finish drinking that bottle of Gatorade before going back to sleep, turning the thermostat up so he didn't feel quite so cold. He practically carried Ian into the bedroom that night, put him to bed. John was sweating at the heat in the house, and yet Ian remained under his blankets. John suffered through the heat, remembering that there had been plenty of times he'd slept in worse conditions. The heat from the thermostat, the heat from Archer's fever, the heat from outside... But Ian hated being sick and he took comfort in being close to John, so John suffered through the heat and made sure he slept just a little bit lighter for signs of distress from his lover's illness.

The combination of the sunrise and the gentle snores coming from Archer woke Soap up the next morning. He pressed his lips to the sniper's forehead and was pleased to find his fever had broken overnight. He held the Brit for a few long minutes before he woke up.

"Feeling better?"

"Mm. Yeah. I'm not nauseous or cold anymore."

"Still weak and achy?"

"Gonna be pissed if I lie?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, still weak and achy."

"Poor thing."

"Piss off, will you?" Archer smiled despite himself. Soap chuckled and kissed his forehead again.

John's impeccable self-motivation was the only thing that got them showered and out to the living room for breakfast, seeing as how Ian was, for once, more than perfectly content with just laying with his lover for the entirety of the day. Ian was a little more like himself than he'd been the day previous, a little more talkative and a little more willing to eat, though he was still not quite up to where John would like for him to be. Archer waved off all attempts at eating what he considered "too much' and he didn't move around a lot, generally finding that doing anything more than just sort of laying there made him cough and wheeze. Curled into John's warmth, though, with familiar strong arms around him, keeping him from shaking, he didn't feel the urge to move, not really.

By the time dawn broke on Monday morning, Ian was feeling a hell of a lot better, significantly less weak and achy, and only slightly tired and sniffly. He didn't really do much on base, however. He took things slow and tried to keep his illness from acting up again and making things worse. The Captain brought him lunch and stopped in to see him throughout the day, always kissing his forehead or his cheek or holding his hand or sitting close to him or asking if he was okay. He pretended to be "tolerating" the contact and the constant coddling, but it actually gave him this strange sort of "warm-and-fuzzy" feeling, and he rather enjoyed it.

"Has anyone seen Roach?" John scanned the men at the firing range, looking for the missing Sergeant. During his search, he also noticed his Lieutenant was missing.

"Riley called your cell phone while you were down range. Apparently Gary's picked up the flu bug from somewhere and he's making Simon take care of him," Archer smirked.

"He's not expecting us to bring him soup or anything, is he?" Soap was rather suspicious, knowing that Gary had his moments of being insufferable.

"No. Riley just wants you to bring him a handgun and one bullet. Didn't specify if it was for him or Sanderson, but I still don't think it's a good idea to take it to him."

"Oh, I agree with you completely. They do enough damage to one another without the aid of modern weapons."

Archer laughed for a few moments, but then dissolved into coughing so violently it left him doubled over and gasping for air. John helped him get upright again with a scowl.

"I know what you're about to say, but there's no reason for you to say it. I'll take more medication when I get home," Ian gasped.

"You had damn well better."

Officially, there was nothing keeping Archer from doing whatever the fuck he wanted, but he learned to accept the notion that he was going to take it easy, or he was going to pay for it on his personal time. He loved John, there was no denying it, but he really, really could do with out the disapproving looks from the Captain and the lectures he knew would come when they were in their own company instead of the company of the team.

Later that evening, when Simon called John and started whinging about how Gary had the flu and he wouldn't shut the fuck up, Ian decided that there were worse things in life than letting the Captain nurse him back to health.