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By now, Eve has learned that when she hears a knock on her door in a specific rhythm (dum da da dum dum, dum dum), whether it's in the middle of the night or at the break of day, it means one thing- Flynn is home. He's there, on her doorstep, dishevelled or sandy or breathless or pristine, and he'd really like to come in, thank you very much. It reminds her vaguely of the stray cat she formed a bond with as a kid, scratching at the door and yowling at all hours to be granted admittance. She always let him in too.
All this is to say that when she hears the familiar rhythm on her door while she's trying to fold laundry, her heart immediately skips a beat. She tosses her shirt aside. Speeds to the front door. Yanks it open as quickly as she can and-
There.
Her Flynn, definitely dishevelled, definitely breathless, and definitely… damp?
“Eve!” He greets, swiping at his brow as he moves towards her. “I'm early today, I know, but I just felt like coming home and I already secured Hermes’ sandals from that theatre group out in Idaho so-” His words trail off as he completely runs out of air, doubling over slightly and resting his palms on his thighs. “Sorry, I'm a little…” He makes a vague gesture in the air as if this explains everything, then straightens up and gives her a smile.
It's only now that she realises just how pale he is. How shiny his forehead and cheeks are with perspiration.
“Flynn?”
“Mhm?”
“Why are you so sweaty?”
In a rare moment, Flynn pauses. Then-
“I’m- oh, right, yes, I- I’m honestly not too sure. I thought maybe I might have overexerted myself a little but usually that rights itself pretty quickly and this has been going on a while so-”
“How long?” She interrupts, the pieces beginning to slot together in her mind.
Flynn hesitates yet again. “Uh, a day or so? Why?”
Her heart sinks a little, but she ignores this, and his question, to continue her investigation. “And does anything else feel different?”
“How do you mean?”
“With you. Does anything feel different with you?”
He sucks in a breath, rubbing the back of his neck before quickly pulling his hand away and flicking it in distaste at the moisture he must find there. “Well, now that you mention it, my head has been hurting and I am more tired than usual, but I just put it down to not drinking enough.” His brow furrows. “Though that doesn't fit with the perspiration, so I might have to go back to the drawing board.”
Eve decides it's time to put him out of his misery, pulling him gently into the entryway and closing the door behind them.
“No, you don't.” She murmurs. Lifts his satchel up and over his head, then presses the back of her hand against his cheek. “You're sick, sweetheart. You've probably got the flu.”
He blinks in adorable confusion and tilts his head like a lost puppy. “Sick?”
“Mhm. Come on, you need to get out of those clothes, you're soaking. Bath or shower?”
He's only been in the tub for a matter of minutes when it becomes obvious that whatever virus he's contracted is hitting Flynn hard. Eve suspected it might- even him choosing to bathe instead of shower clued her in to his fragility. It's the option he relies on when, for whatever reason, the stimulation of the shower on his skin is too much to bear.
Still, it isn't easy to see the illness catch up to him, the adrenaline fading out and letting him feel it all at last. He shivers, though the water is warm. He rests his head against the lip of the tub, closes his eyes, and doesn't talk as she washes his chest, his shoulders, his legs, except to murmur a ‘thank you’ every so often.
Once he's out, it takes him a little while to even dress. His movements are clumsy- clumsier than usual, that is- and when he finally shrugs the pyjama shirt over his head and stands in front of her, arms wrapped around himself, hair curling with damp, he looks far more like a sick kid than a capable librarian.
“I think you were right,” he mumbles into her shoulder as she pulls him into a hug. “‘M not feeling very good.”
They head downstairs when he's ready, taking their time on each step because Flynn seems on the verge of conking out, and she gets him as settled as she can on the couch. He's a fidgeter when he's well, so it's unnerving to see him curl up with the blanket she fetches for him, and make no attempt to move. She offers to make him some tea- it might help his burgeoning sore throat? He shakes his head and closes his eyes.
“Maybe later.”
By the time she returns from the kitchen with her own cup and a glass of water for Flynn, he's already fast asleep. Cheeks flushed, definitely overheating in his little blanket burrito. Eve decides it's not worth waking him just to make him more uncomfortable, so settles in beside him and keeps his forehead always in reach. He's warm, but not dangerously so. Low-grade fever most likely, which would explain the chills too.
In sleep, he shifts ever closer to her, until at last she gives in and positions him so his head is in her lap, his nose buried in her stomach. His arms wrap around her middle on instinct and she scratches soothingly at the nape of his neck.
“You're not used to getting sick, huh?” She whispers. “It’s alright, Flynn. I'll take care of you, I promise.”
When the night creeps in with no sign of change, Eve reaches for her phone and finds the little texting group she shares with the others. The title is a little book emoji- Flynn thought it was cute- and many of the messages are from him. When he's away, he sends them updates through it, but most of the time he uses it as a channel for delivering his favourite internet videos. As she enters the chat now, the most recent exchange concerns a cat video that amused him, one in which the animal had been adorned with glasses and placed in front of a chalkboard covered in equations. He'd tagged Cassandra seven times. The caption below it, in Eve's opinion, is even more adorable than the video.
Math cat!!!! 😺😺
She smiles fondly, then glances downwards and smooths back her partner’s hair. He doesn't stir.
With a quiet click of her tongue, she brings up the keyboard and types.
You: Sorry guys, Flynn and I won't be @ the annex tomorrow. He's sick. We’ll see you once things blow over.
It only takes a second for the screen to erupt with icons, all typing, and then the messages come flooding in. She does her best to keep up with the obvious concern.
Cassandra: oh nooo!! is he alright?
Zekeeee: replying to Cassandra: no ???? he's sick
Cassandra: replying to Zekeeee: You know what I mean :/
Jake: Are we talking flu or tropical disease he picked up from a Mayan temple?
You: replying to Cassandra : He’ll be fine, he just needs to stop running around for a while and sleep. Which he's doing (I’m making sure of it)
You: replying to Jake: Just your regular old flu as far as I'm aware. I'd be more frantic if I thought this was something serious, don't worry
Jake: Thought so but I wanted to be sure. I'd offer some advice but in my hometown parents still put onions in their kids’ socks to draw out the fever so I don't think I've got much to give except a get well soon
Zekeeee : ill send a good chicken noodle soup recipe
Cassandra: i can bring him some cookies when he's feeling a little better
Cassandra: but for now just send him our love
Zekeeee and Jake reacted ‘☝️’ to ‘but for now just send him our love’
You: Will do.
She shuts off her phone and returns her attention to Flynn, rosy-cheeked and slumbering in her lap.
Something tells her it's going to be a long few days.