"I'm not sick."

Beck lifts a dubious brow, fighting a smile that can't decide if it wants to be patronizing or amused. "You have a hundred degree fever," he remarks matter-of-factly, brandishing the digital thermometer for evidence. "You're sick."

"I'm not." Todd forces a smile onto his flushed, sweat-damp face and struggles against the pin Beck's put him in. They're shirtless on the bed, Beck crouched over Todd's prone form like a lion over a kill. He reluctantly allows the marginally older man to pull his wrists free from his grasp, sighing quietly as guitar-callused fingertips brush the full curve of his jaw. Todd lifts his head slowly from the pillow, amber eyes dark with intensity, and Beck's own near-black eyes fall closed in quiet anticipation.

Instead of the expected kiss, however, Beck feels Todd twist away beneath him, and before he can think to question it the silence is shattered by a loud exclamation of "ah-ahhhhCHOO!"

"Very sexy," Beck comments dryly as he opens his eyes to see Todd sheepishly rubbing his nose. "I'm going to go make you some soup."

"Okay," Todd sighs, unhappily resigned to the fact that he is indeed sick and he is not going to get any. Beck's halfway to the door before he stops him. "Tomato?" Todd asks hopefully, and Beck shrugs acceptance. "With oyster crackers?" he presses, drawing a dry chuckle. "And--"

"Don't press your luck, kid," Beck warns.

"Yessir," Todd acknowledges with sober mock-contrition. Beck just shakes his head and goes to the kitchen. The things I do, he thinks as he braves the chaos of the pantry in search of oyster crackers, the things I would do.