The apartment is finally quiet.

Too quiet compared to how loud it was ten minutes ago when everyone was yelling over each other about what to order. Now it’s just the low hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of the city outside, and the sound of Daemon Forbes being in a really fucking bad mood.

He’s sprawled on the couch like gravity hit him harder than everyone else.

Oversized black hoodie swallowing his frame. Grey sweatpants loose on his hips. Hood up, shadowing his face, but not enough to hide how pale he looks or the irritation sitting heavy in his expression. His hair’s a mess, his eyes are tired, and his throat’s been killing him all day.

He’s sick. He hasn’t slept. He’s been drinking more than he should.

And it shows.

A cigar burns lazily between his fingers, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. The room already smells like it. He doesn’t care.

Across the room, Archer leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching him.

Everyone else bailed to go grab food because apparently nobody trusts delivery anymore. Josh dragged half of them out, complaining about how Daemon was gonna “smoke the whole damn place out and die dramatically.”

Archer stayed.

Of course he did.

Daemon doesn’t look at him. “You should’ve gone with them.”

Archer shrugs. “Nah.”

Silence.

Daemon takes a slow drag of the cigar, then coughs immediately after, rough and sharp. It pisses him off more than the actual sickness.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his sleeve across his mouth.

Archer pushes off the counter and walks over. “You sound like death.”

“Good,” Daemon grumbles. “Maybe I’ll finally get some sleep.”

Archer drops onto the couch beside him, close enough their shoulders almost touch. “You’re not dying. You’re just being dramatic.”

Daemon scoffs weakly. “I feel like shit. That’s not dramatic.”

“You’ve felt like shit before and didn’t act like this.”

Daemon finally turns his head slightly, glaring. “I’m sick, I haven’t slept, and my head feels like it’s gonna fucking explode. I’m allowed to act like this.”

Archer studies him for a second. Then softer, “Yeah. You are.”

That takes some of the edge off. Just a little.

Daemon leans back into the couch, exhaling smoke. His eyes close for a second, like he’s too tired to keep them open.

“Stop smoking that,” Archer says.

“No.”

“It’s making it worse.”

“I don’t care.”

Archer reaches over and tries to take it from him.

Daemon jerks his hand away. “Don’t.”

Archer raises an eyebrow. “Seriously”

“I said don’t,” Daemon snaps, voice sharper than he meant.

Silence falls again.

Then, quieter, rougher, “Just leave it.”

Archer watches him carefully. Then nods once, leaning back instead of pushing it.

“Alright.”

Daemon breathes out slowly, tension still sitting heavy in his chest.

A minute passes.

Then two.

Then Daemon shifts slightly, closer without really thinking about it. His shoulder presses lightly into Archer’s side.

Archer doesn’t comment.

Doesn’t move away either.

Daemon mutters, almost under his breath, “You’re warm.”

Archer glances at him. “You’re freezing.”

“No shit,” Daemon grumbles, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself but still not moving away. “I feel like absolute fucking garbage.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Daemon huffs. Then after a second, quieter, “Stay.”

Archer blinks. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Daemon mutters, annoyed at himself now. “Just… don’t move.”

Something in Archer’s expression softens immediately.

“Okay,” he says.

Daemon shifts again, this time more obvious, leaning into him fully, head dropping against Archer’s shoulder. The cigar hangs loosely from his fingers now, forgotten for a second.

He’s tense at first.

Then slowly, like his body gives up fighting, he relaxes.

Archer stays completely still, letting him.

“You’re needy as hell when you’re sick,” Archer murmurs.

Daemon groans. “Shut the fuck up.”

A pause.

Then quieter, almost embarrassed, “I know.”