sonora_coneja (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sonora_coneja) wrote2011-07-26 10:01 pm
sonora_coneja) wrote2011-07-26 10:01 pm
Chicken Soup and Other Things
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
What is it about sick men and sex? My darling is having an allergy attack/sinus infection, and his current line is "C'mon, it'll help me burn out the fever."
So that's what I want to see.
Needy sick partner, somewhat reluctant well partner, screwing their way to health.
Bonus for sick partner yelling, "I can breathe!" or something equally awesome, when he comes.
Any pairing will be loved, though we all know I am partial to H/F.
Thanks!
Hannibal’s not feeling well. Face isn’t exactly sure that sex is honestly going to help. But then, it’s the boss, so...
“C’mon, honey. It’ll help me burn out the fever!”
Face eyes his lover suspiciously. His six-foot-four, naked-under-the-covers, goddamn-gorgeous, fucking-sick lover. Oh, he’s a picture of innocence, that man, propped up in their bed like he is, spreading his cold germs around their shared sheets as he sips on the cool, flat ginger ale his overworked and underpaid lieutenant just brought him. Big blue eyes pleading, mischievous.
Where the fuck did this come from?
What in the hell is wrong with the man?
Other than, yeah, that cold...
Face shakes his head in disbelief anyway. “Aren’t I the one usually begging for sex, John?”
Hannibal smiles, the expression watery, betraying his low fever that intercourse will, evidently, completely take care of for him. “That’s, what, another reason why you should do it?” He sets the gingerale aside and pats the rumpled duvet next to him.
No. Absolutely not. He’s not going to catch whatever Hannibal’s got right now. Sex is great, yeah, sure. But a cold is sort of the opposite of great. The antithesis of great.
“That,” Face tells him, “is not a valid reason to let you fuck me.”
There’s some feigned shock on Hannibal’s face. “You’d honestly pass up sex?” he asks, like this is the biggest fucking piece of news since Jesus rose from the dead. “That’s...kind of amazing, kid.”
He puts on his pouting face. Hannibal usually hates the pouting face, doesn’t he? “John, baby, I’ve been running around for you the last two days, getting your special sick-day oyster crackers for fucking chicken noodle soup and making sure we don’t run out of lotion-infused tissues so your nose doesn’t go all raw...”
“And you know I love you for that,” the colonel tells him, in a voice that almost doesn’t sound like a tease.
Face ignores it.
“... and sitting up here watching those old Westerns you love for some fucking unknown reason and sleeping on the couch last night so you wouldn’t try to kill me in one of your goddamn fever dreams and...”
Hannibal’s still grinning. He pats the duvet again. Curiously enough, the little section of the duvet, over his lap, is starting to tent up. Nicely. And how nice would it be, Face asks himself, to take his lover’s silky-smooth shaft in head and kiss the head, tongue the slit, tease the hell out of him, get him nice and wet and shining? And then just kneel up, sink down, take him inside...
“What else, sugar pie?” Hannibal asks, and then flinches, grabbing for the tissue box.
Sugar pie? Oh, oh no. Oh hell no.
Fuck that.
He was mildly interested before, mildly, only, despite the fact that the man’s sick, but now? Now he has to entrench his position. No way is Hannibal winning this on some ridiculous pet name.
Especially not when he’s blowing his damn nose like that, practically batting his eyes over the top of the tissue.
And Face crosses his arms. “You...you smell bad,” he says, as loftily as he can manage. “You didn’t take a shower last night and you smell bad.”
Hannibal’s a little red, and clearly a little tired, not feeling well at all, but he perks a bit. Destroying any thread of nurturing, protective instinct that might have driven Face over to the bed in the first place. “I could fuck you in the shower, kid. How about that? Just like you love so much...”
“Like you love,” Face grumbles, his traitorous mind offering up images of just how awesome that would be right now. Cool water, slick passage of soap across his skin, Hannibal’s erection pressing, throbbing, between his thighs, sliding just up enough to touch his...
“That’s a no?”
“Damn straight, Hannibal. That is a no. No sex. You’re sick. Sick people do not have sex. Especially not with me.”
“Why not?”
Oh, fuck. He could scream. “Cause it’s gross, man! I’ll, like, catch your...”
“Cooties?” the older man throws out, smirking.
God. Damn. Him. “Jesus, no, I’m not in the fucking third grade anym...”
And then Hannibal cocks his head. “You done?”
Face sighs again. “John...”
But okay, yeah, so Hannibal does look kind of messed up right now. Sick and weak and flushed, flushed like he gets when he’s really far gone or on the night when he lets Face top, and he’s sniffling, a mounded trash can of discarded tissues by the bedside, and he’s got this annoyingly hopeful smile on his rugged, fucking amazing, features, and...
Fuck, Face groans internally.
Now he’s hard too.
“Get your ass over here, Mr. Hissy Fit,” the colonel chuckles, eying him, the physical evidence of his victory now pressing against the seam of Face’s sleep pants. And Hannibal throws a corner of the duvet back for him, “and let me check your temperature. You’re looking a bit fllushed yourself.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one playing doctor?” he grumbles, but closes those few steps to the bed and lets Hannibal guide him up over those long legs to straddle hard thighs, big hands caressing the pulse points in his wrists. “I mean, since you’re the sick one and all that?”
“Naw,” Hannibal replies, and sniffs again as his fingers drop to undo the tie of Face’s soft flannel loungers. “You’re the nurse.”
Face rolls his eyes, even as he’s scooting the covers down far enough for Hannibal’s cock to spring free, for him to take it in hand and return some of the tease. “I thought I was the patient,” he says, flicking the head.
“Nurse,” Hannibal confirms, dipping a hand under the flannel, encouraging the fabric to fall away from the younger man’s lean hips, stroking him to full hardness. “You are...mmm, honey, keep doing that... definitely the nurse right now.”
“Here to make my poor, sick patient feel better?” he says, unable to help the way he’s lengthening, swelling swelling in his mate’s hand, unable to care about much else besides that right now. His lover has been sick for two days, after all. His personal record of six months without feeling this fucking wonderful cock inside him was federally-mandated, after all; Face rarely goes twenty-four hours without at least a hand job these days. “Should I be...oh god... t-taking your temperature?”
“Hardly,” Hannibal growls, the effect somewhat ruined by the thickness in the back of his throat, and smacks his ass, pulling him forward into just the right position.
“You never let me top,” Face says, realizing as he says it that yeah, he’s kind of pouting right now.
“That’s cause you love to bottom so,” Hannibal murmurs. He leans over to grab the bottle of massage oil off the nightstand, the tissue box falling off in the process, poising the little tip right at the top of Face’s cleft, right over the tailbone, and flicks open the lid. “Want you wet tonight, baby. You good with that?”
“You’re a jerk,” Face huffs without any anger at all, and then arches a little as the cool oil slides down between his cheeks, catching up in Hannibal’s other hand, positioned right below.
Slicked fingers slide into him, pushing that slick, wonderful scent of vanilla straight through him, and Face shudders, despite himself, loving, as always, the way his lover can make even something like this so damn good. He gasps as those fingers scissor, stretching him wide, and that’s really when he realizes just how damn bad Hannibal must feel right now. Big as his man is, Face is usually able to take him without much strain, and they both like it a little tight. Hannibal hardly ever stretches him anymore, almost never, and if the older man’s really feeling too poorly to fuck him open like he usually does...
“John...” Face sighs, brushing a hand down his lover’s sweaty chest as that hand works him very, very open. “Oh, god, babe, that’s...”
Hannibal pulls up to kiss his chest, lips and teeth working together to get Face shuddering, and pulls his fingers out, stroking the excess oil across the younger man’s bared hip, right down to the top of his hobbling loungers. “That’s good, right, Temp?” And he sniffs as he urges Face up into position.
“Yeah,” the lieutenant concedes, and slides his hand around the huge cock throbbing against his palm, lining up, stopping just as the tip nudges right against that slicked ring of muscle. “Yeah, John. That’s real good...”
He gets a big, flu-y smile. “I love you, baby.”
Face grins back, unable to help himself at all. “Time to take your medicine, Dr. Smith.”
And Hannibal starts laughing a thick, choked, weezing laugh, right as Face drops straight down onto his cock.
It’s looser than he likes, barely any burn at all, taking Hannibal, but from the way his man’s got his lower lip sucked in, grasping for his hips, pleasure heating up his already over-warm cheeks, the lieutenant supposes he really can’t complain. He rocks forward once, experimentally, and those hands tighten down. Hard.
“Easier, Temp, please, not too rough...”
“But you love it too rough,” he teases lightly, laying both hands, palms down, on his lover’s chest. Yeah, he really is hotter than he should be. And so, when he rolls his hips forward again, it’s gentle. Easy.
Perfect.
Hannibal really isn’t feeling well, Face knows as he continues that calm pace. It’s not exactly slow, he’s still clenching in all the right places like he always does, but he’s not jamming viciously, fighting towards it, not like they usually do when he’s in this position, and Hannibal’s not forcing it either. Not growling, not clamping down and meeting him thrust for hard, hard thrust. It’s definitely not slow, though, and Hannibal’s grinning, murmuring little happy words, yeah, Temp, like that, don’t stop, don’t stop, faster, a little faster now, even if his head is firmly ensconced in the damn pillows that are gonna need to be Lysol’ed after this is all over.
The younger man lets his hands, that firm pillar inside him, long years of experience tell him when Hannibal’s getting close. He’s a fevered, writhing pile of need beneath him, and on a normal night, Face would take all that as a compliment. But tonight...
“C’mon, honey, pick it up, please...”
“You’re sick, baby,” he drawls, stopping completely, his own rock-hard cock hot against his lover’s hot belly, and lays the back of his hand on Hannibal’s forehead. “Fuck, I think you’re getting hotter.”
“That’s the fucking point!” Hannibal growls, and slaps him on the ass again. “Kid, please...”
Face rolls his eyes again but bends down, changing the angle to kiss Hannibal on his sweaty forehead, to lay his cheek against his mate’s shoulder as those big hands, a little limp, cup his ass and pull them tightly together. “We should stop,” he whispers, meaning it without really wanting to. See, he wants to say, see, John? This is why sick sex is a bad fucking idea...
“Don’t you dare, Temp,” Hannibal warns.
And he masks the rest of his concern away again. “You really do stink, John,” Face tells him jokingly, and slams back.
It doesn’t take long after that, Hannibal moaning, moving beneath him, his own cock slipping against that fine silver chest hair, caught in the tight space between them, Hannibal’s burning deep inside him, hands clinging, fever growing...
And finally, finally, there’s that familiar rush across his prostate, a little slower, a little less, than what’s typical, and Face pulls his head off his lover’s sweaty shoulder to see the tired, triumphant grin there.
“What?” he grumbles.
“I think I can breathe again,” Hannibal yawns, and sniffs dramatically, settling back into the sheets.
Face groans at that and sits up, pulls off, shoves his sleep pants the rest of the way off, rolling off to the side to pad off to the bathroom.
Hannibal sounded a little tired there. More than tired. The sex was probably not the best idea in the world. And he feels a little guilty about giving into it - one of the things he’s learned over the years is that Hannibal doesn’t always know his own limits.
I’ll get Murdock to make another pot of soup for him tomorrow, without the hot sauce this time, he promises hmself, and smiles at himself in the bathroom mirror, feeling his own still-hard cock twitch a little, demanding attention. That wasn’t quite enough, without hands, to make him come. The things he does for this man...
Face finishs himself off with one or two pulls, the scent of his lover’s musk still thick on his skin, cleans himself up and tosses the washcloth in the tub. He gets one of the handtowels and wets it down with cool water, knowing how much Hannibal hates being hot and sticky after this sort of thing. But by the time he rounds the corner back into their bedroom, the colonel’s sound asleep, limbs scattered, snoring just a little.
He just stands there by the door for a moment, watching his lover sleep, and ruefully shakes his head. Yeah. Sex. Bad idea.
“I love you, you dumb bastard,” he murmurs, and kisses that forehead as he starts wiping Hannibal’s battle-scarred body down. And when he’s done, Face curls up next to the man, not quite touching, but not quite avoiding it either. He feels a little cooler, the lieutenant thinks. But that was probably just the water...
+++++
In the morning, Face wakes up on the couch, head a little fuzzy. He takes a minute, rolls over on his back, stares up at the ceiling and curses the fact that the boss had to pick this house of all places, with it's utter lack of spare beds, to get sick.
"Great fucking timing, Hannibal," he mutters to himself.
And realizes the back of his throat kind of hurts. Like, more than a little. And he's feeling a bit hot. And the smell of coffee, brewing in the kitchen, which only Hannibal ever makes, is a little less intense than it should be. And...and...
"Oh, oh hell no," he groans, and shoves the blanket back, pushing himself up, feeling a subtle wave of nausea pass through him as he storms towards the tell-tale scent of the coffee-maker. Hannibal did not make him sick. This is not happening, it's just not...
And yeah, there's the man himself, sitting at the counter, laughing with BA as Murdock beats the egg whites up for waffles. It's all quite happy and quite domestic and fucking wonderful, really, because Murdock makes amazing waffles. And Hannibal looks like he's feeling one hundred percent better.
But Face can feel his nose starting to run.
Which he's very much not happy about right now.
"You!" he says, a little louder than he meant to, because his three teammates all look up at him, a bit startled, Hannibal's blue eyes meeting his over the top of his coffee cup. "You fucked your cold right into me, you... you...bastard!"
There's a moment of silence.
And then the warm, rich, lovely, irritating as all heel right now, remember that, Peck sound of the boss' laughter fills the room and Murdock's grinning and BA slams his hands over his ears, getting up from his stool, muttering something about crazy white folk and the van needin' some work as he hurries out of the room. Face sort of wants to cry. He hates being sick. Hates how his nose go all scaly and itchy and his skin gets gray and how nasty he always feels...
"That's okay, kid," Hannibal chuckles, coming over and wrapping his arms around the younger man's shoulders, kissing his neck lightly. "I think I know just the thing for you."
"What's that? More sex?" he asks, and yeah, if it sounds a little hopeful, well...
Hannibal kisses him again. "Chicken soup and a good Western movie marathon. Just what the doctor ordered." And he slaps his ass as he pulls away, back to his seat at the counter, his coffee. "And no waffles for our sick boy here, HM. Wouldn't want to stress his tummy now, would we?"
"No sir," Murdock says, completely serious, that apron waggling a bit as he goes back to whisking the eggs. "No aggravating those cooties."
Hannibal chuckles, and winks at him. "Love you, sweetheart."
Face rolls his eyes, but goes over, takes the seat recently vacated by BA, and sighs into Hannibal's shoulder. "You owe me so much chicken soup, old man," he groans.
"Wouldn't dream of doing anything less," Hannibal murmurs back. And yeah, okay, the hand that slips up into his hair, those light strokes against his scalp, that light kiss that's placed on his cheek, those soft words free of all the sickness he heard in them yesterday...well, it's not quite worth it.
But it's pretty damn close.
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
What is it about sick men and sex? My darling is having an allergy attack/sinus infection, and his current line is "C'mon, it'll help me burn out the fever."
So that's what I want to see.
Needy sick partner, somewhat reluctant well partner, screwing their way to health.
Bonus for sick partner yelling, "I can breathe!" or something equally awesome, when he comes.
Any pairing will be loved, though we all know I am partial to H/F.
Thanks!
Hannibal’s not feeling well. Face isn’t exactly sure that sex is honestly going to help. But then, it’s the boss, so...
“C’mon, honey. It’ll help me burn out the fever!”
Face eyes his lover suspiciously. His six-foot-four, naked-under-the-covers, goddamn-gorgeous, fucking-sick lover. Oh, he’s a picture of innocence, that man, propped up in their bed like he is, spreading his cold germs around their shared sheets as he sips on the cool, flat ginger ale his overworked and underpaid lieutenant just brought him. Big blue eyes pleading, mischievous.
Where the fuck did this come from?
What in the hell is wrong with the man?
Other than, yeah, that cold...
Face shakes his head in disbelief anyway. “Aren’t I the one usually begging for sex, John?”
Hannibal smiles, the expression watery, betraying his low fever that intercourse will, evidently, completely take care of for him. “That’s, what, another reason why you should do it?” He sets the gingerale aside and pats the rumpled duvet next to him.
No. Absolutely not. He’s not going to catch whatever Hannibal’s got right now. Sex is great, yeah, sure. But a cold is sort of the opposite of great. The antithesis of great.
“That,” Face tells him, “is not a valid reason to let you fuck me.”
There’s some feigned shock on Hannibal’s face. “You’d honestly pass up sex?” he asks, like this is the biggest fucking piece of news since Jesus rose from the dead. “That’s...kind of amazing, kid.”
He puts on his pouting face. Hannibal usually hates the pouting face, doesn’t he? “John, baby, I’ve been running around for you the last two days, getting your special sick-day oyster crackers for fucking chicken noodle soup and making sure we don’t run out of lotion-infused tissues so your nose doesn’t go all raw...”
“And you know I love you for that,” the colonel tells him, in a voice that almost doesn’t sound like a tease.
Face ignores it.
“... and sitting up here watching those old Westerns you love for some fucking unknown reason and sleeping on the couch last night so you wouldn’t try to kill me in one of your goddamn fever dreams and...”
Hannibal’s still grinning. He pats the duvet again. Curiously enough, the little section of the duvet, over his lap, is starting to tent up. Nicely. And how nice would it be, Face asks himself, to take his lover’s silky-smooth shaft in head and kiss the head, tongue the slit, tease the hell out of him, get him nice and wet and shining? And then just kneel up, sink down, take him inside...
“What else, sugar pie?” Hannibal asks, and then flinches, grabbing for the tissue box.
Sugar pie? Oh, oh no. Oh hell no.
Fuck that.
He was mildly interested before, mildly, only, despite the fact that the man’s sick, but now? Now he has to entrench his position. No way is Hannibal winning this on some ridiculous pet name.
Especially not when he’s blowing his damn nose like that, practically batting his eyes over the top of the tissue.
And Face crosses his arms. “You...you smell bad,” he says, as loftily as he can manage. “You didn’t take a shower last night and you smell bad.”
Hannibal’s a little red, and clearly a little tired, not feeling well at all, but he perks a bit. Destroying any thread of nurturing, protective instinct that might have driven Face over to the bed in the first place. “I could fuck you in the shower, kid. How about that? Just like you love so much...”
“Like you love,” Face grumbles, his traitorous mind offering up images of just how awesome that would be right now. Cool water, slick passage of soap across his skin, Hannibal’s erection pressing, throbbing, between his thighs, sliding just up enough to touch his...
“That’s a no?”
“Damn straight, Hannibal. That is a no. No sex. You’re sick. Sick people do not have sex. Especially not with me.”
“Why not?”
Oh, fuck. He could scream. “Cause it’s gross, man! I’ll, like, catch your...”
“Cooties?” the older man throws out, smirking.
God. Damn. Him. “Jesus, no, I’m not in the fucking third grade anym...”
And then Hannibal cocks his head. “You done?”
Face sighs again. “John...”
But okay, yeah, so Hannibal does look kind of messed up right now. Sick and weak and flushed, flushed like he gets when he’s really far gone or on the night when he lets Face top, and he’s sniffling, a mounded trash can of discarded tissues by the bedside, and he’s got this annoyingly hopeful smile on his rugged, fucking amazing, features, and...
Fuck, Face groans internally.
Now he’s hard too.
“Get your ass over here, Mr. Hissy Fit,” the colonel chuckles, eying him, the physical evidence of his victory now pressing against the seam of Face’s sleep pants. And Hannibal throws a corner of the duvet back for him, “and let me check your temperature. You’re looking a bit fllushed yourself.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one playing doctor?” he grumbles, but closes those few steps to the bed and lets Hannibal guide him up over those long legs to straddle hard thighs, big hands caressing the pulse points in his wrists. “I mean, since you’re the sick one and all that?”
“Naw,” Hannibal replies, and sniffs again as his fingers drop to undo the tie of Face’s soft flannel loungers. “You’re the nurse.”
Face rolls his eyes, even as he’s scooting the covers down far enough for Hannibal’s cock to spring free, for him to take it in hand and return some of the tease. “I thought I was the patient,” he says, flicking the head.
“Nurse,” Hannibal confirms, dipping a hand under the flannel, encouraging the fabric to fall away from the younger man’s lean hips, stroking him to full hardness. “You are...mmm, honey, keep doing that... definitely the nurse right now.”
“Here to make my poor, sick patient feel better?” he says, unable to help the way he’s lengthening, swelling swelling in his mate’s hand, unable to care about much else besides that right now. His lover has been sick for two days, after all. His personal record of six months without feeling this fucking wonderful cock inside him was federally-mandated, after all; Face rarely goes twenty-four hours without at least a hand job these days. “Should I be...oh god... t-taking your temperature?”
“Hardly,” Hannibal growls, the effect somewhat ruined by the thickness in the back of his throat, and smacks his ass, pulling him forward into just the right position.
“You never let me top,” Face says, realizing as he says it that yeah, he’s kind of pouting right now.
“That’s cause you love to bottom so,” Hannibal murmurs. He leans over to grab the bottle of massage oil off the nightstand, the tissue box falling off in the process, poising the little tip right at the top of Face’s cleft, right over the tailbone, and flicks open the lid. “Want you wet tonight, baby. You good with that?”
“You’re a jerk,” Face huffs without any anger at all, and then arches a little as the cool oil slides down between his cheeks, catching up in Hannibal’s other hand, positioned right below.
Slicked fingers slide into him, pushing that slick, wonderful scent of vanilla straight through him, and Face shudders, despite himself, loving, as always, the way his lover can make even something like this so damn good. He gasps as those fingers scissor, stretching him wide, and that’s really when he realizes just how damn bad Hannibal must feel right now. Big as his man is, Face is usually able to take him without much strain, and they both like it a little tight. Hannibal hardly ever stretches him anymore, almost never, and if the older man’s really feeling too poorly to fuck him open like he usually does...
“John...” Face sighs, brushing a hand down his lover’s sweaty chest as that hand works him very, very open. “Oh, god, babe, that’s...”
Hannibal pulls up to kiss his chest, lips and teeth working together to get Face shuddering, and pulls his fingers out, stroking the excess oil across the younger man’s bared hip, right down to the top of his hobbling loungers. “That’s good, right, Temp?” And he sniffs as he urges Face up into position.
“Yeah,” the lieutenant concedes, and slides his hand around the huge cock throbbing against his palm, lining up, stopping just as the tip nudges right against that slicked ring of muscle. “Yeah, John. That’s real good...”
He gets a big, flu-y smile. “I love you, baby.”
Face grins back, unable to help himself at all. “Time to take your medicine, Dr. Smith.”
And Hannibal starts laughing a thick, choked, weezing laugh, right as Face drops straight down onto his cock.
It’s looser than he likes, barely any burn at all, taking Hannibal, but from the way his man’s got his lower lip sucked in, grasping for his hips, pleasure heating up his already over-warm cheeks, the lieutenant supposes he really can’t complain. He rocks forward once, experimentally, and those hands tighten down. Hard.
“Easier, Temp, please, not too rough...”
“But you love it too rough,” he teases lightly, laying both hands, palms down, on his lover’s chest. Yeah, he really is hotter than he should be. And so, when he rolls his hips forward again, it’s gentle. Easy.
Perfect.
Hannibal really isn’t feeling well, Face knows as he continues that calm pace. It’s not exactly slow, he’s still clenching in all the right places like he always does, but he’s not jamming viciously, fighting towards it, not like they usually do when he’s in this position, and Hannibal’s not forcing it either. Not growling, not clamping down and meeting him thrust for hard, hard thrust. It’s definitely not slow, though, and Hannibal’s grinning, murmuring little happy words, yeah, Temp, like that, don’t stop, don’t stop, faster, a little faster now, even if his head is firmly ensconced in the damn pillows that are gonna need to be Lysol’ed after this is all over.
The younger man lets his hands, that firm pillar inside him, long years of experience tell him when Hannibal’s getting close. He’s a fevered, writhing pile of need beneath him, and on a normal night, Face would take all that as a compliment. But tonight...
“C’mon, honey, pick it up, please...”
“You’re sick, baby,” he drawls, stopping completely, his own rock-hard cock hot against his lover’s hot belly, and lays the back of his hand on Hannibal’s forehead. “Fuck, I think you’re getting hotter.”
“That’s the fucking point!” Hannibal growls, and slaps him on the ass again. “Kid, please...”
Face rolls his eyes again but bends down, changing the angle to kiss Hannibal on his sweaty forehead, to lay his cheek against his mate’s shoulder as those big hands, a little limp, cup his ass and pull them tightly together. “We should stop,” he whispers, meaning it without really wanting to. See, he wants to say, see, John? This is why sick sex is a bad fucking idea...
“Don’t you dare, Temp,” Hannibal warns.
And he masks the rest of his concern away again. “You really do stink, John,” Face tells him jokingly, and slams back.
It doesn’t take long after that, Hannibal moaning, moving beneath him, his own cock slipping against that fine silver chest hair, caught in the tight space between them, Hannibal’s burning deep inside him, hands clinging, fever growing...
And finally, finally, there’s that familiar rush across his prostate, a little slower, a little less, than what’s typical, and Face pulls his head off his lover’s sweaty shoulder to see the tired, triumphant grin there.
“What?” he grumbles.
“I think I can breathe again,” Hannibal yawns, and sniffs dramatically, settling back into the sheets.
Face groans at that and sits up, pulls off, shoves his sleep pants the rest of the way off, rolling off to the side to pad off to the bathroom.
Hannibal sounded a little tired there. More than tired. The sex was probably not the best idea in the world. And he feels a little guilty about giving into it - one of the things he’s learned over the years is that Hannibal doesn’t always know his own limits.
I’ll get Murdock to make another pot of soup for him tomorrow, without the hot sauce this time, he promises hmself, and smiles at himself in the bathroom mirror, feeling his own still-hard cock twitch a little, demanding attention. That wasn’t quite enough, without hands, to make him come. The things he does for this man...
Face finishs himself off with one or two pulls, the scent of his lover’s musk still thick on his skin, cleans himself up and tosses the washcloth in the tub. He gets one of the handtowels and wets it down with cool water, knowing how much Hannibal hates being hot and sticky after this sort of thing. But by the time he rounds the corner back into their bedroom, the colonel’s sound asleep, limbs scattered, snoring just a little.
He just stands there by the door for a moment, watching his lover sleep, and ruefully shakes his head. Yeah. Sex. Bad idea.
“I love you, you dumb bastard,” he murmurs, and kisses that forehead as he starts wiping Hannibal’s battle-scarred body down. And when he’s done, Face curls up next to the man, not quite touching, but not quite avoiding it either. He feels a little cooler, the lieutenant thinks. But that was probably just the water...
+++++
In the morning, Face wakes up on the couch, head a little fuzzy. He takes a minute, rolls over on his back, stares up at the ceiling and curses the fact that the boss had to pick this house of all places, with it's utter lack of spare beds, to get sick.
"Great fucking timing, Hannibal," he mutters to himself.
And realizes the back of his throat kind of hurts. Like, more than a little. And he's feeling a bit hot. And the smell of coffee, brewing in the kitchen, which only Hannibal ever makes, is a little less intense than it should be. And...and...
"Oh, oh hell no," he groans, and shoves the blanket back, pushing himself up, feeling a subtle wave of nausea pass through him as he storms towards the tell-tale scent of the coffee-maker. Hannibal did not make him sick. This is not happening, it's just not...
And yeah, there's the man himself, sitting at the counter, laughing with BA as Murdock beats the egg whites up for waffles. It's all quite happy and quite domestic and fucking wonderful, really, because Murdock makes amazing waffles. And Hannibal looks like he's feeling one hundred percent better.
But Face can feel his nose starting to run.
Which he's very much not happy about right now.
"You!" he says, a little louder than he meant to, because his three teammates all look up at him, a bit startled, Hannibal's blue eyes meeting his over the top of his coffee cup. "You fucked your cold right into me, you... you...bastard!"
There's a moment of silence.
And then the warm, rich, lovely, irritating as all heel right now, remember that, Peck sound of the boss' laughter fills the room and Murdock's grinning and BA slams his hands over his ears, getting up from his stool, muttering something about crazy white folk and the van needin' some work as he hurries out of the room. Face sort of wants to cry. He hates being sick. Hates how his nose go all scaly and itchy and his skin gets gray and how nasty he always feels...
"That's okay, kid," Hannibal chuckles, coming over and wrapping his arms around the younger man's shoulders, kissing his neck lightly. "I think I know just the thing for you."
"What's that? More sex?" he asks, and yeah, if it sounds a little hopeful, well...
Hannibal kisses him again. "Chicken soup and a good Western movie marathon. Just what the doctor ordered." And he slaps his ass as he pulls away, back to his seat at the counter, his coffee. "And no waffles for our sick boy here, HM. Wouldn't want to stress his tummy now, would we?"
"No sir," Murdock says, completely serious, that apron waggling a bit as he goes back to whisking the eggs. "No aggravating those cooties."
Hannibal chuckles, and winks at him. "Love you, sweetheart."
Face rolls his eyes, but goes over, takes the seat recently vacated by BA, and sighs into Hannibal's shoulder. "You owe me so much chicken soup, old man," he groans.
"Wouldn't dream of doing anything less," Hannibal murmurs back. And yeah, okay, the hand that slips up into his hair, those light strokes against his scalp, that light kiss that's placed on his cheek, those soft words free of all the sickness he heard in them yesterday...well, it's not quite worth it.
But it's pretty damn close.