Charlotte Cromwell – no, she corrects herself – Charlotte Hiddleston makes her way home after an exhausting day in the hospital. It’s nothing unusual, hell, she’s had a hundred times more horrible days somewhere in the past. It’s just that it didn’t really matter then. Not as much as it does now. Because as much as Charlie loves her job and helping her little patients, it’s definitely nothing compared to the life she’s living at home now.

Tom’s waiting for her there. Tom and their two daughters, because yes, Evie’s ‘hers’ now as well, and just as loved as little Rose is – who by now has her own little personality and is keeping her parents busy with all the enthusiasm and lust for adventure a two-year-old can have – especially being the daughter of one Tom Hiddleston.

Okay, Charlie admits as she slips out of her shoes first and then loses her jacket, the last week has been kind of hellish at home as well with her very own little patients waiting for her. First, it was Evie bringing the flu home from school. Of course, it didn’t take long for Rose to catch it, too, no matter how careful Tom and Charlie had been. But now it seems like their children survived – Tom has probably suffered more than them, though – and Charlie’s just glad it’s over for now.

She checks the clock in the kitchen as she prepares her tea. 9 o’clock. She swears. She wanted to tell the children goodnight, but well, sometimes her job means that she can’t make it home to her own children in order to help others. Tom knows this and Evie gets it as well, little Rose is still too young to actually understand.

At least she can still hear the tv playing in the living-room, so she knows Tom’s still there and waiting for her. It is strangely quiet otherwise, though, no padding of feet on the floor announcing her husband making his way over to meet her. Maybe Tom’s fallen asleep? The two cats aren’t coming, either, but then again they may be out and about in the neighbourhood.

Charlie grabs the tea she’s prepared and makes her way from the kitchen to the living-room right next to it. She feels so at home in Tom’s house. It’s not the largest they could get probably, and it’s still the one Tom and Evie lived in with Emily, but it’s amazing how quickly they were all able to call it ‘theirs’.

And then Charlie stops before she’s reached the comfy couch Tom loves to lounge on. He’s indeed asleep. And slightly snoring, which is unusual for him, except for when he’s a bit tipsy – Charlie can’t see a sign of that anywhere – or when he comes down with the flu. You don’t really need to be a doctor to get it, do you?

She refrains from rolling her eyes, because just yesterday her husband told her how he never got sick and wouldn’t start with it now, but instead smiles sympathetically, puts down her tea on the coffee table and sits down next to Tom.

His skin is already a bit clammy and his hair sticks to his forehead. She rubs his shoulder softly, trying to get him to wake up without startling him.

“Tom?” she whispers. “Tom, love, wake up for me?”

“No,” is the mumbled reply, groaned into the pillow underneath his head.

Charlie smothers a grin. She’s seen him with a cold or the flu once or twice. She knows what state he’s in. Right after ‘I’m invincible, I’ll never get the flu’ comes ‘I’m perfectly fine, I simply choked and am not currently coughing my lungs out’. It’s paired with already being sick and the most stubborn pouts she’s ever seen on a grown-up’s face. But no matter how much Tom refuses to be sick, he actually is. So. No mocking him. At least not tonight. Tonight she wants to drink her tea, re-heat the dinner her family’s had and then go to bed, preferably with Tom.

“I think you’re already awake, though,” she whispers back. “And I can imagine you’re not feeling too good.”

“’m fine.”

“Fine.”

Blue eyes, a bit too glassy for her taste, stare back at her. With a slight cough Tom pushes himself up on his forearms, barely able to hold his own bodyweight. The hair that’s not stuck to his forehead falls in a mess of curls around his face. “Feeling good. How was your day?”

“Tom…”

“Charlie.”

She raises a brow. “You’re really going to do this? Even though we both know how this will end?”

The glare loses some of its power – that it didn’t even have in the first place – with the quiet sniffling Tom’s doing. “I don’t know what you mean,” he croaks out. “I just want to know how my wife’s feeling.”

Charlie chuckles. There really isn’t much else to do. Let him be stubborn, she’s going to prepare for tomorrow morning then. “Better than her husband I think,” she mumbles, but continues at Tom’s huff, “I’m a bit tired and a bit hungry. I’d love to eat some late dinner and then go to bed. Would you care to join me?”

He nods. “I’d love that. But no funny business if you’re tired.”

This time, she can’t smother the laugh that escapes her. “Understood. I’m the reason we’re not doing that tonight, my big, strong, healthy man. Thank you for looking out for me.”

***

Well, the next morning Charlie is awoken by her big, strong and healthy man moaning and groaning next to her in bed. And not in that sexy-bedroom-voice of his. It’s a little pathetic coughing that comes next and a very (very, very) weakly whispered, “Charlie, love? Help?”

She opens her eyes to a dark room, cuddled from behind by what seems to be a human furnace, but could just be her husband. The dawn is breaking outside, and Charlie can hear a bird here and there. Large hands rub her stomach and puffs of air meet her neck. Tom’s apparently so weak, he can’t even keep her in his arms as she turns around to face him.

Red cheeks, swollen eyes, red nose and dry lips. Yup, that’s the flu.

“How are you?” she asks, trailing a fingertip down Tom’s nose.

“Barely alive.”

Ah. So sometime during the night they’ve reached the next stage. Miserable Tom, who’s most certainly the closest to death any person has ever been without actually dying – probably, since the next 24 hours will be crucial.

“But still alive, that’s good,” she grins.

“If I die, I’m haunting you first.”

Charlie snickers, then attempts a shocked face. It’s not working and to be honest Tom couldn’t see it anyway, lying there in misery, eyes closed. “What have I done?”

“You’re mocking me. And you’re not doing anything to make me feel better and save me. You’ll regret this in one or two hours, when you’ll find me dead in our bed.”

“But you’re not really sick. You’ve told me so yesterday.”

“The situation has changed. It seems like this is a horrible flu, Charlie. It requires a broth, pain medicine and cuddles.”

Okay. She was wrong. He does have that low, sexy, bedroom-voice. Damn him, even sick he’s a sight for sore eyes and a heavenly voice to hear. She should also not be aroused by that.

“I don’t know, Tom. Maybe I should get the children and flee from this horrible illness of yours. Everyone fights for themselves, right?”

The answer is a whine and then a little tug on her sleeping shirt, right by her thigh. “Stop mocking me. I’m seriously ill. Don’t let those be the last words to me, and make me feel better.”

“Please?”

“Please.”

Charlie lives for that small smile around Tom’s lips as she moves a little closer and then rubs his shoulders softly , before she pushes some of his hair out of his face.

“Well, you asked so nicely.”

“I did,” her murmurs, sounding half asleep again.

“Tea and toast then?”

“An’ pills. ‘n cuddles.”

With a kiss on his nose, she moves out of the bed. “Coming right up.”

“Hm. Love you.”

She smiles. God, this man. “Love you too.”