Elvis One Shots/Imagines

Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear - Elvis

A/N: 1st part of my Elvis Week fics! request by @kirstenungar

"Elvis?"

You'd been calling him all morning. Normally you didn't worry about him not calling you back right away. But you knew he was alone at Graceland and he hadn't answered your call last night. You were extremely worried, so you came down yourself to make sure he was okay.

"That you, doll?" A thick voice came from the living room and you practically ran inside to find him. On the expansive couch you found Elvis wrapped up in three separate blankets, sweating like a madman but shivering all the same.

"Elvis? Baby you alright?" You set your bag down and went towards him.

"J-just fine baby," he said, giving you a miserable smile. His cheeks and nose were bright pink and glossy, and his voice sounded thick and congested like he'd stuffed something up his nose. The poor guy's face had gone pale and he had purple bags beneath his eyes.

You brought your hand to his face, feeling his clammy cheek. Then you touched his forehead, "Elvis you're burning up!"

"I'm fine," he said, swiping your hand away and nestling into the couch. "Don't need nuthin."

"Elvis it's okay to be sick or to need something," you said, sitting onto the couch next to him. He wiggled away from you, fumbling for the remote.

"You can go on home, I'm fine."

You rolled your eyes and took the remote that he couldn't seem to grasp, and started to flick through the different channels. When Singing in the Rain appeared on one, he asked you to stop so he could watch it. You giggled a little to yourself, did Elvis not realize you've been together long enough to know that that's his sick movie? You got up, kissing his overly warm forehead, and telling him you were going to grab the thermometer.

"Nooooo," he whined, pulling on your sweater. His pink lips pouted. "I don't wanna make you take care of me."

"You ain't ever think that I might want to take care of you?" You asked, propping your hands on your hips and staring at him. He just rolled his eyes and looked away.

You went to the bathroom and rinsed the thermometer in room temperature water, before bringing it over to Elvis. He lifted his tongue and waited until the little thing reached a steady point. 100.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Poor baby," you said, rubbing his arm as you showed him his temperature. "You've got a fever."

He sneezed and a glob of mucus came onto his shirt. It was gross, objectively, but you were going to care for him anyway. You went and got him another shirt, and some new blankets because you didn't know how long he'd been wrapped up in those, and helped him take off the one he has on now. You also grabbed a damp rag and put it to his forehead to help with the fever.

"You don't gotta do this, it's gross."

"I've been with you for ages, I ain't leaving just cause of some snot." And at that, you handed him the box of Kleenex's before he sneezed again. "I'll go make us some soup. You get all cozy."

He begrudgingly took the tissue, wiping at his nose. But he did listen to you because, despite his best efforts, you always knew best. Elvis settled deeper into the couch as you went into the laundry room to dispose of the shirt and blankets, then went into the kitchen to make him some soup.

The music flowed through the open arch ways, and in his congested voice he was muttering along to the music. It made you smile, and you danced slightly as different songs popped in and out of ear shot. Half an hour later and the chicken noodle soup was done. Basic, yes, but it always seemed to do the trick. He sat up when he saw you being the bowl in, and you placed it on a mat on the coffee table.

"Shoot, I forgot your spoon."

Elvis put his hand out to stop you, saying there wasn't any need. He grabbed the bowl and sipped directly from it. The warmth seemed to help relax him and he sighed, drinking more of the broth.

As the night unfolded you did everything you could to make his life a little easier. You washed the dishes, did the laundry, made his bed, and you just asked if he wanted a foot massage. He declined, but he appreciated the offer. So you just propped a fan up in the corner of the room and sat on the opposite side of the couch, watching old movies as they came on the channel.

At one point, he searched for your hand and held it, clutching your fingers tightly, "you gotta be the most comforting thang in the whole damn world."

You smiled, leaning your head on the back of the couch. "Oh yeah?"

"You's like a teddy bear or one of them baby blankets," he nodded, running his thumb over your knuckles. You just laughed softly and squeezed his hand back.

Eventually, he fell asleep on the couch. He black hair was sprawled all over the red cushion, his lips open a little and drooling to the side. Elvis always seemed to make his body smaller when he slept, like he was shoved in some sort of box. You took a tissue and wiped away the drool. Then you adjusted the pillow so his neck wasn't craned that way and straightened out the blankets on him.

After that, you just leaned on the couch and looked at him, smiling. He wasn't perfect, he did a lot of bad stuff. But he also did a lot of good stuff, and you loved every second of it. For better or for worse, in sickness or in health, he was yours eternally.