Requested by @darkheartsdontbreaktheybruise 88: “I vote for today to be pajama day.”
Feysand - sick Rhys
Rhys is most definitely not sick. Or so he says.
Feyre, however, knows that this is most certainly bullshit. She was awake too when he was coughing up a lung at two in the morning, and when his nose was so clogged he woke abruptly when he couldn’t breathe normally. Her husband had had such a rough night sleep, in fact, that Feyre woke up before him, and was the first to feel his forehead. It practically burned her hand.
Immediately, she had canceled all of his meetings and obligations for the day. She called upon a healer, who inspected him quickly, quietly, while he was still sleeping, and left after telling Feyre just to make him rest and he would be fine in a couple days.
Feyre had closed the blinds so no light reached Rhys’ sleeping form, allowing him the chance to sleep rather peacefully for many more hours. His wife was completely content to watch over him while he slept, reading her book and brushing his hair back from his face from time to time.
He woke with a start, sitting up and practically trying to jump from the bed, upsetting the damp washcloth that had been sitting on his brow. His legs got twisted with the blanket, however, and he fell to the floor, groaning in discomfort. Feyre had tsked a couple times as she made her way around and helped her mate back to his feet before easing him on the bed again.
Rhys refused to lie down however, insisting that he was completely okay, even as his voice made a scratchy sound every time he talked and snot was currently pouring from his nose. Feyre simply handed him a tissue and pushed his shoulders so he was at least sitting against the headboard.
“But I have so much work to do Feyre. I’m not sick!” He kept saying, though he had just gratefully accepted the cup of tea she offered for his sore throat.
“I already canceled all your appointments for the day. Everyone understands that even the High Lord needs a sick day once in a while.” Feyre calmly explained, brushing his sticky hair off of his forehead. He looked like crap, she had to admit.
Thank you so much, darling.
Oops. It’s not a bad thing, Rhys. It’s actually a little nice to know that you don’t look perfect all the time. She winked at him.
“Yeah, well I can get dressed now so you don’t have to keep looking at me in my less than perfect state.” He said playfully, going to stand but Feyre pushed him down yet again.
“Nuh uh, sir, you are staying in this bed. In fact, I vote today to be pajama day!” She exclaimed. Rhys sighed, smiling slightly as he looked at her fondly. He was so easy to convince
Now, he grasps her hand in his and squeezes once. “What did I do to deserve you?”
Feyre winks again. “I ask myself the same thing everyday.” Suddenly, she stands up and skitters to the door. “Okay, you stay put and get comfy. I’ll be right back with food and stuff for the day. It’s about time we just spent a day together.” Her smile takes his breath away as she opens the door and swiftly departs.
The High Lord shakes his head, blows his nose, and takes a couple sips of his tea. When the cup was almost empty, he stands, stretching his sore limbs and thanking Feyre for getting him out of training with Cassian today. To be honest, he doesn’t think he would be able to do it in this state.
Rhys walks to his closet, going to the bottom drawer and pulling out a pair of footie pajamas with stars all over it that Mor had gotten him as a joke. He decides if he was going to spoil Feyre’s image of him as this sexy, perfect High Lord, he might as well do it comfortably.
About half an hour later, Rhys snuggled halfway beneath his covers, halfway not, warm and cozy in his pjs, Feyre comes back. She drops three bags of groceries on the table, scampers over to the bed to place a kiss on Rhys’ forehead, and then dashes for the closet. Rhys sits up in his bed in preparation, having a slight coughing fit in the meantime.
Rhys is just picking up another tissue when the closet door opens. Rhys drops the tissue. As well as his jaw. However, as always, he recovers quickly. “I didn’t know it was that kind of pajama day, darling. You should have told me and I wouldn’t look like such a dork.” He smirks, eyes freely roaming up and down her body which is scantily covered in a incredibly small black nightgown. He is working to stand and go to her as she holds up a finger.
“We’re not doing that today, not when you’re still sick. Though it doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the view.” Feyre grins, causing Rhys to groan and fall back on his pillows.
“You torture me, you know that?” He asks, raising an eyebrow and following the movements of her body as she makes her way to the bed.
“Oh, yes, I do.” She hums, sliding under the covers next to him and peeking at what he is wearing underneath. “Love the footie pajamas by the way, so incredibly sexy.”
Rhys’ smirk comes back as he slides a hand under the covers towards her. “Sexy, you say?” But the act is ruined by a coughing fit that takes over his body.
Feyre rubs his back soothingly until he is done and then gets out of bed to bring him the snacks from the table, ready to settle in for a relaxing day with her mate.
For a couple hours, Feyre and Rhys simply read, eat, and cuddle, content in the silent company of each other. Eventually, Rhys’ eyes grow tired and he can no longer focus on what he is reading. So, Feyre takes the book from his hands, pulls Rhys down to lay his head in her lap, and reads aloud to him. Too many times, Feyre feels a hand start brushing along the edge of her nightgown and each time, with the hand that is constantly brushing through his hair, Feyre pulls at the strands slightly, causing him to growl and stop.
Later in the afternoon, Feyre leaves for a few minutes to make him soup. When Rhys spies the bowl in her hands, his eyes sparkle. She feeds him the hot soup but his eyes never leave hers as he eats, no doubt remembering the first time she made him soup. When the bowl is empty, he once again lays his head on her lap and stares up at her with pleading eyes.
His footsie pajamas have someone become unzipped to the waist, the upper half tied around his waist. Whether this is because he is hot or for some other reason, Feyre can’t be entirely sure. She laughs and shakes her head down at him, causing her hair to fall down in his face. He tugs at the loose strands in a silent question. “You’re insufferable.”
“But you love me.” Rhys reminds helpfully.
“That I do, however you know that I will not make love to you until you are 100% better.” Feyre retorts.
Her husband harrumphs, crossing his arms and sniffing. Feyre watches, however, as his eyes begin to slide shut once more. He snuggles around her, burying his head in her stomach. She smiles and runs her fingers through his hair again, feeling absolutely perfect in this moment.
That is, until she sneezes.
She feels Rhys smirk against her tummy. “Guess we’re having another pajama day tomorrow.”