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Dylan was frequently tired, so he didn’t think much of it when his body protested getting out of bed. He brewed a cup of coffee and sighed. He hadn’t stayed up that late, had he? Rubbing his eyes and stretching his limbs, he made his way into work, just a bit more slowly than was usual.
Instead of waking up with the excitement of the day's work, he only felt worse and worse. His body screamed for him to lay down as Lizzie talked. The thought of chasing their latest killer made him wince, and his head ached the more Lizzie’s voice droned on.
Ugh, he needed to focus. Pay attention. He made an effort to sit up straighter, which his muscles protested painfully. Lizzie must have seen the badly hidden expression of discomfort on his face. His thoughts were growing hazy, and it was hard to focus on anything besides the pain in his head and the leaden exhaustion filling his body.
“Dylan?”
He didn’t answer. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“—feeling okay?”
Lizzie snapped her fingers in front of Dylan’s face. He startled.
“There you are. Dylan, are you sure you’re not coming down with something?”
He looked at his lap, unwilling to make eye contact with Lizzie. He managed some non-committal reply that was entirely unconvincing.
“Hmm, you should know better than to lie to a detective. I’m taking you home,” Lizzie said.
Dylan frowned.
“What about the killer?”
“We’ll manage without you. You’ve got to go rest, Dylan, you look like you’re about to topple over.”
“Hey!”
Lizzie smirked. Dylan frowned, giving in. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment.
“I’ll call Andy and then I’ll take you home. How does that sound?”
It was all Dylan could do to nod in agreement.
—
He did his best not to fall asleep in Lizzie’s passenger seat as she navigated the traffic. When they pulled up to his and Andy’s house, Andy was waiting anxiously by the door, already fully prepared to hover over Dylan.
“Hey honey,” he said softly, guiding Dylan inside. “Lizzie told me you’re not feeling too hot.”
Dylan frowned. “I’m okay,” he said, even as he leaned all of his weight against Andy. “Just need some rest…”
Andy nodded and sat Dylan down on their bed. He removed his husband’s jacket, then his tie, then he unbuttoned his shirt, setting each piece of clothing carefully on top of the bed. Dylan was protective of his clothes. Andy helped him into a pair of pajamas and gave him a tight hug.
“How’s your appetite? Did you eat some lunch at the office?”
Dylan shook his head.
“I’m not hungry,” he admitted. “Just tired…”
His voice sounded soft, weaker with every sentence. Andy didn’t need to be told he was tired. It was as obvious ever, evident in Dylan’s hazy, dark eyes and his complete lack of movement as he sank into his pillow.
“Okay. I’m gonna take your temperature, okay Dyl? And then you can have some medicine and a nap.”
Dylan hummed in assent. Andy stuck the thermometer under Dylan’s tongue, which made the latter scrunch up his eyes in discomfort (“it presses against my mouth tissue, Andy”). The device proved Andy’s suspicion: Dylan was running a fever. Andy ran his hand across Dylan’s forehead, assessing his warmth and pushing stray pieces of hair out of the way. Dylan’s eyes closed, enjoying the touch.
Andy brought a glass of water and a bottle of pills. Dylan groaned upon realizing he needed to sit up, but was convinced by the prospect of dulling the pain in his body.
“Wait!” Dylan explained, a small glimmer of strength returning to his voice. “Your work. You should be at the bar. It’s Thursday.”
Andy smiled sadly.
“I came home when Lizzie called. It’s okay. The employees today know what’s up; they don’t need me there.”
Dylan looked confused.
“You sure?”
“Completely sure. Now, let’s get some rest, hmm?”
Dylan mumbled something barely audible. Andy crawled into bed beside him, and allowed Dylan to snuggle up against him. He stayed awake for a while, shifting and humming occasionally from pain, which shattered Andy’s heart. Andy rubbed his back and kissed his forehead until he calmed. Eventually, the medicine seemed to kick in, and the pain drained from Dylan’s body. He sighed deeply. In another moment, he was fast asleep.
—
Lizzie called a few hours later. She wanted to know how Dylan was doing. Andy smiled as he reported on his husband’s current condition: conked out in their bedroom while Andy cooked them dinner, something he hoped would stir his appetite.
“Oh, thank goodness you convinced him to sleep. Poor guy. I worry,” Lizzie said. Andy smiled.
“I know you do. And I’m glad. Dylan deserves good friends.”
There was a long pause. Andy listened to the distant whine of a dog, no doubt Gary wondering where his own dinner was.
“He does,” Lizzie said finally. “He really does.”