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Danny gets home at 7:18 p.m. Rusty knows because he checked the stove clock twice and the microwave once, and then pretended he hadn’t.
Rusty is running a con.
It’s not a big one. No international banking systems, no fake noses or exploding dice. Just a clean, elegant little job: Appear Fine.
He’s been at it all day.
This morning, when Danny left, Rusty had waved him off from the doorway with a mug of coffee he hadn’t finished and a smile he’d practiced in the bathroom mirror. Danny had paused, just a fraction too long, and pressed the back of his fingers to Rusty’s cheek.
“You’re warm,” Danny had said.
Rusty had leaned into it deliberately, smiling like this was flirting instead of a warning. “I run hot. Occupational hazard. You married a furnace.”
Danny had narrowed his eyes. “I married a liar.”
“An affectionate liar,” Rusty corrected, and kissed him until Danny laughed and let it go.
Now it’s evening, and Rusty has spent the entire day making sure there is evidence of normalcy. The sink has a reasonable number of dishes. The couch pillows are artfully rumpled. The air smells like garlic and lemon, which suggests cooking instead of fever-induced inertia.
He even showered. That took planning, grit, and one extremely ill-advised attempt at optimism.
By the time Danny’s key turns in the lock, Rusty is on the couch, one sock on, one sock off, scrolling through nothing on his phone like a man with no secrets.
Danny steps inside and freezes.
Rusty clocks it immediately. Danny always pauses like that when he’s counting. Angles. Weight. Temperature shifts. He doesn’t look at Rusty first, he looks at the room.
“Hey,” Rusty says, light. He flashes a smile he knows Danny likes. “You miss me ?”
Danny closes the door slowly. “I’ve been gone twelve hours.”
“Longest twelve hours of my life.”
Danny’s mouth twitches despite himself. He sets his bag down carefully, takes off his jacket, scans again.
“How was your day ?” Rusty asks, layering charm on thick.
“Productive,” Danny says. A beat. “How was yours ?”
“Thrilling. I survived. Very brave.”
Danny takes two steps closer.
Rusty pats the couch. “Come sit. I made dinner.”
Danny stops in front of him instead. Looks down.
“…Rusty.”
Rusty tilts his head, all innocence. “Danny.”
“You’re flushed.”
“I’m always flushed when you come home.”
“You didn’t put on socks.”
“That’s intimacy. I feel safe.”
“You always put on socks.”
Rusty sighs theatrically. “Wow. You catalog me now ?”
“Yes.”
Danny crouches in front of him.
Rusty groans, fond and tired. “You don’t have to interrogate me like I stole something.”
Danny reaches out anyway. Two fingers to Rusty’s wrist. Gentle. Unavoidable.
Rusty lets it happen. He even squeezes Danny’s fingers a little, like a bribe.
Danny counts.
One.
Two.
Three.
Danny exhales.
“…You have a fever,” he says quietly.
Rusty winces, then smiles again. Softer. “Okay, but in my defense—”
Danny raises an eyebrow.
“—I look incredible for someone with a fever.”
Danny snorts. “How high ?”
“I didn’t check.”
“You didn’t check,” Danny repeats, already standing.
“Didn’t want to commit,” Rusty calls after him. “It’s a numbers thing.”
Danny returns with the thermometer and a glass of water. He hands Rusty the water first.
“Drink,” he says.
Rusty does, obedient, watching him over the rim. “You’re being very serious.”
“You’re very sick.”
“I prefer ‘delicately unwell.’”
Danny presses the button on the thermometer. “Open.”
Rusty does. “You know, if I were conning you, I’d never let it get this far.”
Danny smiles thinly. “That’s how I know you are.”
They wait.
Rusty leans his head back, eyes fluttering. Danny’s hand comes up without thinking, steadying his shoulder.
The thermometer beeps.
Danny checks it.
“…102.”
Rusty whistles weakly. “Triple digits. Impressive.”
Danny sits beside him immediately, close, pressing the back of his hand to Rusty’s forehead, then his neck.
“Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice ?” Danny asks.
Rusty turns, their knees touching. His smile this time is small, real. “I thought if I kept you laughing, you’d go easy on me.”
Danny’s exasperation melts into something fond. He brushes Rusty’s hair back, thumb lingering at his temple.
“You should’ve called,” he says.
“I didn’t want to ruin your day.”
“You don’t ruin my day,” Danny says firmly. “You’re my day.”
Rusty blinks. “Wow. Weaponized sincerity. Dirty move.”
Danny kisses his forehead anyway. “You’re going to bed.”
Rusty tries. “But I made pasta.”
“I’ll bring you some.”
Rusty perks up. “With parmesan ?”
Danny squeezes his knee. “With parmesan.”
“Okay,” Rusty concedes. “I surrender.”
Danny helps him up, one arm steady around his waist, guiding him down the hall. He moves slowly, carefully, like Rusty is precious. Like he knows exactly how fragile he is right now.
In the bedroom, Danny tucks him in, pulls the blanket up, swaps the pillow for the good one.
Rusty watches, hazy-eyed. “You’re very good at this.”
Danny just laugh and leaves the room.
Later, he brings the pasta like it’s a peace offering.
Two bowls balanced carefully on a tray, steam still curling upward, the good forks instead of the mismatched ones Rusty pretends not to hate. He even grabbed the parmesan from the fridge and the cracked black pepper grinder, because Rusty had made a thing of both earlier, voice thin and dramatic from the pillows.
Rusty is propped halfway upright when Danny returns, blankets tangled around his legs, hair flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. He looks smaller like this. Danny notices. He always notices.
“You’re spoiling me,” Rusty says, voice rough but pleased.
“You’re sick,” Danny replies. He sets the tray down carefully across Rusty’s lap, adjusting it until it’s stable. “Eat.”
Rusty peers into the bowls. “You gave yourself more.”
Danny shrugs. “I’m bigger.”
“Barely,” Rusty says, but he’s smiling as he takes the fork. His hand shakes just a little when he twirls the pasta. Danny pretends not to see, then reaches out and steadies the bowl anyway.
“Guided,” Rusty says around a mouthful, as if continuing an argument they were having earlier. “You guided me to bed. I walked.”
“Under protest.”
“I was fine.”
Danny arches an eyebrow. Rusty grins weakly and goes back to eating.
Danny hesitates for half a second before climbing into bed beside him, careful not to jostle the tray. He sits upright against the headboard, knees bent, a deliberate inch of space left between them. He hates it. Rusty clocks it immediately.
“Oh,” Rusty says, wounded but amused. “I see. Quarantine rules.”
“Doctor’s on the way,” Danny says. “Until then, we’re being smart.”
Rusty hums. “You’re very attractive when you’re being smart.”
Danny snorts despite himself. “Eat.”
They eat quietly for a bit. Rusty’s pace is slow, measured, like every bite costs him something. Danny finishes his bowl first, then waits, hands folded, watching Rusty like he might disappear if Danny looks away.
“This is good,” Danny says.
Rusty brightens instantly. “Yeah ? I wasn’t sure about the lemon.”
“It works.”
“I knew it would,” Rusty says smugly. “I have instincts.”
“You have a fever.”
“Details.”
The doorbell rings not long after. Danny sets the empty bowls aside, tucks the blanket more securely around Rusty’s legs and then extracts himself from the bed with reluctance.
“Don’t move,” he says like Rusty hasn’t already melted into the mattress.
Rusty salutes weakly. “Aye aye.”
The doctor is efficient, middle-aged, kind-eyed. She washes her hands, listens carefully, asks questions Danny has already mentally prepared answers for.
Rusty is cooperative, if a little theatrical.
“I felt fine yesterday,” he says. “Then suddenly—boom. Betrayed by my own immune system.”
Danny watches from the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight.
The exam is thorough but quick. Temperature rechecked. Lungs listened to. Throat examined. Blood pressure cuff squeezing Rusty’s arm while he makes an affronted noise.
Finally, the doctor straightens.
“Good news,” she says. “This isn’t contagious.”
Danny’s shoulders drop immediately.
Rusty blinks. “Really?”
“Looks like a bacterial infection localized to the sinuses,” she continues. “Unpleasant, but not transmissible. Antibiotics, fluids, rest.”
Danny lets out a breath he’s been holding all evening.
“So,” Rusty says slowly, eyes flicking to Danny. “Hypothetically.”
The doctor smiles. “Hypothetically, yes. You’re safe.”
Rusty notices immediately the change on Danny's face.
“Oh,” he says softly. “That face. That’s a good face.”
Danny exhales, long and shaky, and nods. “Yeah.”
The doctor leaves with instructions and prescriptions and a gentle warning about rest. Danny locks the door behind her and leans his forehead against it for a second, just breathing.
When he turns back, Rusty has his arms open.
“Well ?” Rusty asks.
Danny crosses the room in three strides and climbs into bed without hesitation this time. He gathers Rusty in carefully, mindful of his heat, his fragility, the way he sighs like he’s been waiting for this all night.
Rusty melts against him immediately, pressing his face into Danny’s chest.
“Oh,” Rusty murmurs. “There you are.”
Danny wraps an arm around him, hand splayed warm and steady between Rusty’s shoulder blades. He presses a kiss into Rusty’s hair, then another to his temple, then, finally, Rusty’s mouth.
It’s slow. Careful. Like they’re relearning something they already know by heart.
Rusty kisses back like he’s starving.
Danny pulls away first, just enough to rest their foreheads together. “Easy.”
“I am being easy,” Rusty says. “I’m being very restrained.”
Danny smiles, thumb brushing lightly along Rusty’s jaw. “Sleep.”
Rusty grumbles, but he obeys, shifting closer, fitting himself along Danny’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Danny adjusts the blankets, tucks them around Rusty’s shoulders, shifts until Rusty’s head rests comfortably beneath his chin.
Rusty sighs again, long and content.
“You smell like garlic,” he murmurs.
“You cooked,” Danny says.
“For you.”
“I know.”
They lie there like that for a while, the city noise distant through the window. Rusty’s breathing evens out, then stutters, then evens again. Danny stays awake, listening, one hand rubbing slow circles against Rusty’s back.
Rusty wakes sometime after midnight, restless.
He shifts, whimpers softly, forehead hot where it presses into Danny’s collarbone.
“Hey,” Danny murmurs immediately. “I’ve got you.”
“Too warm,” Rusty mutters.
Danny peels the blanket back a little, lets cool air reach Rusty’s skin. He grabs the glass of water from the bedside table and lifts Rusty just enough to help him drink.
Rusty fumbles, spills a little down his chin.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“It’s fine,” Danny says, wiping it away with his thumb. “You okay ?”
Rusty nods weakly. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
Danny snorts quietly. “Good luck with that.”
He settles Rusty back down, rearranges pillows, presses a cool washcloth to Rusty’s forehead. Rusty sighs at the contact, eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re very good at this,” Rusty murmurs again.
Danny’s voice is low, steady. “Go back to sleep.”
Rusty obeys.
The night passes in fragments like that.
Rusty wakes, Danny soothes. Rusty shivers, Danny adds a blanket. Rusty overheats, Danny peels it back again. Each time, Danny is there before Rusty can fully surface, like he’s been hovering right at the edge of sleep himself.
Once, Rusty wakes disoriented and clutches at Danny’s shirt.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, voice thick.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Danny says instantly, tightening his hold.
Rusty presses closer, breathing evening out again almost immediately.
Near dawn, the fever finally breaks.
Danny feels it first, the shift in Rusty’s temperature, the way his body relaxes, the tension bleeding out of him like a held breath finally released.
Rusty stirs, stretches slightly, nose brushing against Danny’s throat.
“…Hey,” he murmurs, clearer this time.
“Hey,” Danny replies.
Rusty blinks up at him, eyes tired but lucid. “Still here.”
Danny smiles softly. “Always.”
Rusty studies him for a moment, then grins, slow and real. “You know,” he says, “for someone who pretends not to worry, you worry very thoroughly.”
Danny huffs. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” Rusty says, snuggling closer, “you adore me.”
Danny presses a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep.”
Rusty does.
This time, Danny lets himself sleep too, arm firm around Rusty, holding him steady as the morning light creeps in through the window.
The con is over.
And Danny stays anyway.