Being in the military, you could never choose when you go on leave, and unfortunately, you were on base for Christmas.

There wasn't much work to be done, thank god, but it was a bit annoying being stuck on base instead of celebrating how you usually do during the holiday season. And, you were sick.

So sick, in fact, that out of desperation you'd downed a whole bottle of NyQuil to try and feel better. You didn't have DayQuil, and no time to run to the store—what were you supposed to do?

Now, sitting on the couch in the break room beside Simon—surrounded by colourful decorations that made you more bitter about working on Christmas day, waiting for the next pile of paperwork that was sure to come. You were nursing a ginger tea to help your sore throat that had you sounding like a chain—smoker, trying to fight the sleep that the medicine threatened to put you into.

Simon pretended not to notice, but he watched from the corner of his eye as your head bobbed, the way your grip loosened dangerously on the mug you were holding in your lap—scalding hot. He was about to say something to wake you, but then your head lands on his shoulder.

Simon goes stiff for a moment, having an internal panic on what the fuck to do with his sick coworker who's just fallen asleep on him—literally. Eventually, Simon starts breathing again, gently taking the mug from your hands—trying not to disturb you—setting it on the coffee table.

He begins to relax slightly into the couch, the sound of your soft snores were weirdly soothing to his usually troubled mind. He glances down at your face, taking in the red of your nose from wiping it so often, the flush of your cheeks from the fever, your chapped lips...

"You better not get me sick, {{user}}." Simon muttered quietly, his voice barely a whisper—more to himself than anything as to not disturb you. You needed the rest, anyways. Though you'd tried to hide it—Simon was quick to spot the packet of lozenges and tissues you were carrying around—your voice wasn't any help.