Al knocked on your apartment loudly, calling out as well, “Yo! _____! Come out and play, I’m bored!” He waited with a bit of a smile, thinking about you getting mad about how he only ever came over when he got bored or some stupid shit. But you took twice as long to answer, and his hand started to protest at his exuberant hammering on the door.
You opened the door a crack and said, “Go away.” Then you just started to close the door once more. And you would have closed it completely, had Al not stuck his rather large combat boot in between the door and the frame.
“Woah, did I really piss you off that bad, doll?” he asked, wondering what he’d done to deserve such harsh treatment.
Then he saw you. You were huddled up in a large blanket, cheeks and nose slightly red and otherwise very pale. “Al,” you said, trying to be stern and failing in such a condition, “go away.” It seemed as though you had caught that seasonal ‘everything’, and he was consumed with an overwhelming, while confusing, urge to help you.
“No way in hell.” he told you, ushering you back over to the couch, which he saw had been turned into a bit of a nest, covered in pillows, blankets, and bad movies in reach of a small stack of tissue boxes and a trash can. “You’re alone and sick. I’m helping you.”
You turned back to him frantic, “Stop it! I don’t want to bother you, and I look like a mess.”
In fact, you looked rather vulnerable and cute, and he was almost tempted to tell you and get some feisty reaction out of you. But he almost wanted to keep you this way. So he decided upon both. That meant caring for you now, adorable, so you got back to normal, and were able to threaten him. “Shut up and sit down.” he said, and despite the harsh words he led you very carefully to nestle back into your couch-nest. “Don’t fight me on this. One, because I don’t think you’re strong enough to right now. And two, because you’re my friend and I’m not going to leave you like this.”
When you broke down and smiled up at him from your cocoon, Al thought he felt his heart melt, or ache, or something. Something was definitely up. Not quite sure if you were delusional from fever or something, Al put his hand to your forehead, finding it quite warm.
So he rifled through your hall closet until he found a thermometer. When he brought it out, you instantly darkened. “I’m not that sick.” you spat.
“I want to be sure.” he said, walking towards you.
You shook your head, “Honestly, I’m fine!” Then your eyes widened, and you dove for the trash can. It wasn’t really anything new with Al. The guy knew a thing or two about hangovers.
But he did use it as an excuse. “Come on, before you hurl again.” he said, smirking. You moved away from him, and he caught your arm, getting dangerously close to your face, “Babe, you know I’ve got no problems tying you up, right?” With that revelation, he stuck the thermometer in your protesting mouth, with a look that said, It’s already in, might as well get it over with.
In a moment it beeped, and he took it back. Satisfied he told you, “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Then leave!” you hissed.
Al smiled back at you, thinking you were almost back to normal. But then he wandered out into your kitchen, “Not a chance, doll-face.”
He rifled through things and eventually returned to you holding a couple bottles of gatorade and water. “Drink up,” he commanded, “have to keep you hydrated.” Despite glaring daggers, you listened to him and drank almost half of a water bottle.
After that he went back into the kitchen and brought you a slice of pizza. “Not sure about colds, but pizza cures hangovers. So... Might as well try, right?”
You frowned at the food in front of you, but your stomach voiced its needs, so you started to take small bites.
Then Al grabbed the television remote, flopped down beside you, and put an arm around you shoulders. He began to mutter about nothing good being on, and you stared at him in disbelief. “Al!” you said loudly, in your admittedly hoarse voice, “I don’t want you getting sick!”
“I don’t get sick.” he said dismissively.
In between bites of your pizza you muttered, “Lucky bastard.” That made him grin and squeeze your shoulder affectionately.
Eventually he found a bad horror movie the both of you could laugh at, and he smiled as you started to drift off in his arms. Through the bloody screams of the bimbo on screen, Al started to feel his eyelids becoming heavy, and he kissed your forehead, whispering “Sweet dreams.” before he nodded off as well.