"Dammit!" Nick hurls the textbook across the small bedroom, his bad mood only slightly alleviated by the satisfying slap it makes against the wall. His head hurts, his throat hurts, his eyes hurt, and are going blurry from reading too much, although "too much" in this case wasn't even five pages of art history. To top it all off, it's Friday night and he should be out having a good time at some random house party or other, not sitting here, feeling like shit, studying because there's fuck all left to do.
He called Aaron to moan about it this afternoon, and AC had been sympathetic, if a little clueless. He was the little brother after all, and the comfortable pop star, on tour in California at the moment, not the supposed big brother living in a tiny apartment in New York. What he really wants is his mom, but the two of them have been on another of their fight cycles ever since Jane Carter found out that Nick's version of "going solo" over the year's break had nothing to do with cutting an album. And one thing he really doesn't need to hear when he's sick is exactly how he could have avoided this situation by going to rot in a studio somewhere and doing wonderful fabulous things or whatever.
What he needs is for that infernal pounding in his head to stop. Or, wait... that's the door. Well they can just fuck off. The knocking keeps going, though and suddenly Nick jumps to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness, deciding that maybe bitching some idiot out is just what he needs.
He yanks the door open as far as the chain will let him, because this is New York after all, not some posh hotel where he can fling the door wide and have a full-fledged screaming popstar tantrum at the staff, and stops in utter surprise.
"My god," she says in the quietly amused way she has, "I was right. You look like shit."
"What the..."
"I told you you sounded like shit on the phone last night," she shrugs. "So I came down to make sure you don't die alone in this junk heap."
He fumbles with the chain and opens the door for real this time, letting her in. She's got that old ratty sweatshirt on over her t-shirt and jeans, and the decrepit denim backpack that means she really is planning on staying is slung over her shoulder. He moves to hug her, but sneezes instead.
"Bed," she orders. Over his protests she drops the backpack, kicks the door shut behind her and pushes him by the shoulders back into his room. Once he's fallen onto the old mattress he suddenly doesn't want to protest anymore.
She cleans off the bed, sticking the random papers into a binder and shelving it, sweeping the used kleenex to the floor. She tucks him in firmly, even fluffing up the pillows like he's a little kid or something. The used kleenex and other assorted garbage make it into the actual trash can for once, and then she kisses his forehead and moves back out into the main part of the apartment.
Music filters softly back to him, WilsonPhillips of all things, but it's hers, so it's okay. It reminds him she's there. The old kettle that came with the apartment whistles, and she is back with a hot water bottle. "Here."
He grabs her wrist. "Stay," he pleads, but she pulls away.
"Five minutes," she promises.
It's only four. He knows because, comfortable and sleepy as he now is, he still counts the seconds until she returns, carrying a tray and two bowls of steaming hot something.
"Whassat?"
"Sit up."
He obeys and she lays the tray in his lap, picking up one of the bowls and settling herself at his feet.
"Tomato soup."