The Pedro Pascal Files

Not Feeling Too Good // Dave York

(Dave York x F!Reader)

It's about 5:30 am. The normal time that Dave is awake and taking his morning shower before work. You usually sleep until 7:00, waiting until after he leaves to start your day. But today is different.

You're currently sitting in the living room, on your sofa. You've been seated there since 4:45 am. You don't feel well. Your head is swimming. Your chest aches along with your whole body. It feels like a toddler is sitting on your chest and you can't breathe. Suddenly, an inhuman chill passes through your bones. Your teeth begin chattering and you can't seem to make it stop.

Dry lips are quivering as you try to get a hold on your physicality's. Your face burns, but your blood runs cold. The water shuts off and the bathroom door opens. "David?" You croak. You never call him David unless you're angry or afraid. Right now, you're scared and just want some comfort.

He steps out into the dark hallway; his toothbrush is hanging from his lips. White foam leaking from a single corner. He quickly finishes and comes out of the bathroom in his boxers. "You called?" He says. "I-I don't feel good." You whimper. He strides over, kneeling down before your folded knees and the end of the couch. "Tell me what's wrong." He immediately takes your hands.

Realization sets in. You're sick. He can feel clamminess rattling your body. "Sweetheart, I think you're sick." He says, letting go to feel your forehead. His hands are cool to the touch. "Let me get the thermometer." He says, moving away. You remain frozen on the couch.

He returns, thermometer in hand. He comes over and places it in your mouth and under your tongue before leaving to finish getting dressed. Another wave of chills pass through you.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. The thermometer sounds off to let you know it's finished. You take it out, struggling to make out the numbers on the small screen.

103.5 degrees.

You give a shaky sigh. If there's one thing you're nervous about, it's being sick. Dave comes back in a couple minutes; he's buttoning up his shirt. "What's it say?" He asks. "I'm running a fever." You said, nervously. He swipes the device from your hand. "Yow...that's a pretty big one too. Lemme get an ice pack." He moves from you, taking the thermometer to clean it off.

"Want me to stay home?" He asks. He hands you the softening ice pack that's been wrapped in a thin hand towel. "No. I know how important work is for you." You say. "Well, I don't want you fighting off a cold alone." He says.

You place the pack on your wrist, hoping it'll push the fever to break. Soon your lighting it all over your cheeks, your neck, your forehead and chest. You start to feel a sweat breaking and you sigh, thinking it's over. "Fever's broken." You say aloud. Dave is tying the laces on his dress shoes.

"I can always stay home, if you don't feel comfortable—" "I'm fine. Really." You interject. He shrugs his shoulders. "Okay, but call if you need something." He says, giving you a kiss goodbye before leaving.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, the fever has returned with a vengeance. You don't have any water. The achiness in your body is much worse and your chest feels so tight you want to cry.

You can barely pick up the phone to call Dave. He answers, quickly becoming concerned when you explain to him what's gone wrong. He tells you he's already out the door and headed home. Work can wait.

Scuffling up the sidewalk, he barges into the house to find you sitting up on the couch. Your eyes look tired and puffy. Your cheeks are redder than fire. Your lips are still dry. You're in your underwear as it is too hot for even a tank and sleep shorts.

"Honey..." he says, coming over. "I'm sorry." You say. "I didn't mean to..." "Never mind. Let's go take a cool shower." He says, helping you up. Your knees feel weak, like blood is struggling to get to your legs. Your head swims and you feel dizzy. "Slow down." You whine. "Honey, we haven't moved yet." He assures.

Once in the bathroom (and after a painfully slow walk down the hallway), Dave helps you get undressed. He's more worried now than ever. Your skin is boiling and he hopes a freezing cold shower will help. "Please don't go." You say. "I'm going to stay here." He says, sitting down against the frosted glass panel of the shower. You want to hold hands, but you settle for pressing your hands against the glass for each other.

The fever breaks a second time and you decide you're chilled to the bone. Dave helps you from the shower. "Shall I get something for you to wear?" He asks. "If it's okay with you, I'd feel better staying naked." You say. He gets you back into the living room and turns down the thermostat. He wants to make it as cool as possible.

He gets you a glass of water as you sit on the couch. The A/C finally kicks on and it starts to cool off. Dave sits with you on the couch, holding your hand as you shut your eyes. You're not necessarily sleeping, but your lids feel so heavy it's a chore to keep them open.

Finally, you slump over and he catches you. You're fast asleep. The fever returns and breaks a third time, leaving your forehead coated in sweat while lying on Dave's chest. He doesn't mind; he just brushes your hair out of the way. Your breathing is uneasy and you startle awake. You always have horrible nightmares when you're sick.

Dave's arms just offer comfort. "I'm right here," he says "I won't let anything happen to you." You loosen your grip on his shirt, attempting to fall back asleep.