The 12 Dates of Christmas

The One With the Fever (feat. Anthony Mackie)

You pulled the blanket over your head and muttered into your phone.

“Babe, I'm good. Enjoy your aunt's dressing. Hug your mom for me. Kick Josh's ass on whatever game console he got this morning. And forget about me.”

Leave me alone to die.

You were miserable. Aches, chills, runny nose that you still somehow couldn't breathe out of. There was a pile of tissues next to you on the bed so high that if you laid on your side and closed one eye, it blended with the snow you could see outside, and made it look like an avalanche had come through your bedroom window.

I'mm dreaminnng of a whiiite Christmaaass…

The fever was definitely getting to you. It was time for NyQuil. Well, strictly speaking, it was time for DayQuil, but you wanted out.

“I'll do all those other things- especially the ass kicking- but I'm not forgetting about you,” Anthony said.

You had no energy to argue. “Go eat carbs and drink something bad for you. I'm going back to sleep.”

You had really been looking forward to Christmas with his family. So much so that you had refused to acknowledge the slight achiness in your body and the extreme fatigue that had hit you like a truck the day before. You weren't getting sick. You were fine.

By bedtime, there'd been no denying it anymore. You were ill. You were very, very ill. Anthony had tucked you into bed, found you the extra blanket your fever demanded, and stocked your nightstand with tissue, bottled water, and ibuprofen. Then he'd handed you the remote for the TV, kissed your head, and gone to make you tea.

He'd come back to find you crying.

“Oh baby, is it that bad?” He felt your forehead and pulled you close.

You'd hissed and cringed. The aching made it painful for him to even embrace you. Fuck you, winter bug, fuck you.

“Yes,” you'd confirmed. “But it's not just feeling crappy. It's Christmas.”

The disappointment was almost as bitter as the ibuprofen you'd had trouble swallowing. But he'd calmed you down, and by the time you (very easily) fell asleep, you had resigned yourself to a day in bed and managed to convince him to go to his aunt's house without you the next day. All you wanted was sleep.

Once you'd disconnected the call, you reached for the blessed purple liquid beside the bed.

All I want for Christmas is to fall asleep, to fall asleep, yes to fall asleep. All I want for Christmas is to fall asleep, so I won't know I'm missing Christmaaasss…

You chuckled at your own parody. It wasn't even good, but you were pretty sure you were delirious. Can you know you're delirious? Five minutes later, you were blissfully unconscious.

All too soon you were coming to. You were groggy, and vaguely aware of a rustling sound in the room. You yelled at the cat to get out and rolled over, hoping like hell you'd fall asleep again. You didn't feel the same chill in your bones as you had earlier, but you still snuggled as deeply as you could into the blankets.

Quiet settled around you again and you breathed deep. Your nose was clearing up. And something smelled divine. Your eyes snapped open and you sniffed the air again. You weren't imagining things.

Rising up on your elbows (which still ached, though only slightly) you took a moment to look around your room. A tiny Christmas tree sat in the corner, lights twinkling. There was a small stack of gifts next to it. A glittering silver garland had been draped along the window, and the TV showed a crackling fire. Or you assumed it was crackling. It had been muted.

You grinned, falling back on your pillow. Okay, that didn't feel so great. You listened carefully and could definitely hear the faint clatter of someone moving in the kitchen. Then a voice drifted up the stairs, humming, and moving closer.

You watched as Anthony entered the room, carrying a tray. A bowl of soup and a mug of tea that looked like Heaven on earth steamed next to a plate of cookies.

“Merry Christmas,” he said quietly.

“Dammit, Mackie, I told you to forget me and enjoy your day with family,” you scolded. There was a smile on your face though.

He set the tray down on the bed. “Oh I see how it is. I do all this for you, and you still get salty with me.”

“It's wonderful. I love it,” you said as you propped yourself up against the headboard. “I love you.”

“That's more like it,” he said with a grin as he settled on the mattress next to you, pulling the tray close. “I love you too.”

“You didn't stay at your aunt's house long,” you observed, reaching for the soup.

“My mom slapped me upside the head and told me to get my ass back home to you,” he said, feeling what was probably an imaginary lump on his head.

You laughed, and he took the spoon out of the soup bowl, scooping some up and blowing on it before offering it to you. You let him feed you, bite by bite, until it was gone. He seemed satisfied with your returned appetite.

“I'm glad you came home,” you admitted as you settles into the pillows, mug of tea in hand. “But I'm sorry I made you miss out on family time.”

You were getting sleepy again. Anthony turned the sound on on the TV fire, and you chuckled quietly at the perfect cheesiness of it.

“Don't be,” he said. “They sent our gifts home with me, and I got like, four plates of food for later.”

Your eyelids were heavy. Anthony pulled the tea from your hand and set it on the nightstand. You pulled his arm around your shoulders and leaned into his warmth. He stroked your hair and kissed your head.

“I never should have left you here at home anyway. But I'm here now.”

You started drifting.

“Nowhere I'd rather be,” he said softly, pulling you closer. You sighed happily, and he started humming again.

Oh there's no place like home, for the holidays...