Fic: The Doctor Is In
Title: The Doctor Is In
Author: lit_chick08
Pairing: Ian/Nina RPF
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: People are real; events in the story are not
Summary: The night before the Correspondents' Dinner
A/N: based off a prompt from earnmysong who wanted more Nian
Tomorrow evening, she is going to the White House, and all she wants to do is take two shots of Nyquil and sleep until September.
The dream dress is hanging on the back of the door, the flowing white material wafting gently in the artificial breeze from the fan. She had spent weeks hunting for the right dress, dragging Candice all over the known world to try on every color and style; when she put on the white Dolce dress and stepped out of the dressing room, the look on Candice’s face instantly let her know it was “the one.” Her best friend had also immediately taken a picture and sent it to everyone on the show.
Matt told her it looked like a wedding dress; Nina still likes to pretend like she hadn’t put the dress on in the privacy of her bathroom, held her hair up off of her neck, and assessed her bridal potential.
The idea of having to put on the dress tomorrow, fixing her hair and her make-up, and posing for the cameras is exhausting. She knows she should be excited, trying to ramp herself up and use the whole “mind over matter” thing Ian insists works (though, really, he had walking pneumonia for months, so maybe, just maybe, he’s wrong about that), but she doesn’t want to fake it till she makes it. She wants her mother’s chicken soup, the grubby sweats she stole from Ian, and the jar of Vicks which has not left her side in a week.
She knows she must have drifted off because she feels something likely tickling her face. Forcing her heavy eyes open, she sees Ian perched on the side of the bed, a gentle smile on his face.
“How’s the patient?”
“Dying,” she replies, an answer she does not find melodramatic in the slightest, especially given the pressure on her chest.
He touches her cheek softly before lowering his lips to her forehead. It is not quite a kiss, and Nina recognizes it as the same gesture his mother had performed months earlier when she came to visit during his bout with the plague. “You’re burning up.”
She whimpers as he tugs her into an upright position, bearing the majority of her weight against his shoulder. He shakes two Motrin from the bottle and she obediently opens her mouth, catching the pills on her tongue; it hurts to wash them down with water, her throat raw from coughing.
She lies back down, the world a little hazy around the edges, and she vaguely registers his movement to the bathroom. A few minutes later, Ian is back, slipping his hands beneath the hem of her sweatshirt and carefully drawing it off of her.
“Seriously?” she croaks. “This does it for you?”
He chuckles low in his chest. “Didn’t I ever tell you how hot I think mucous is? It’s a good thing you aren’t vomiting, Dobrev, because otherwise I would just fly into a frenzy.”
Nina laughs despite herself, obediently lifting her hips to be freed of her sweatpants. She feels like she should protest, say something about how she isn’t an invalid and demand an explanation, but the truth is, she likes this, how he takes care of her. As a rule, they are not the kind of couple who dote on each other; they are loving and affectionate (sometimes, according to Paul, who has shared many a hotel wall with them, a little too affectionate) but they do not baby each other.
She likes when he takes care of her. It makes her feel safe and loved, and if she wasn’t fairly certain she was going to soon be experiencing death by sinus infection, she would tell him that.
He lifts her easily, carrying her like a child into the bathroom. Immediately she can see the steam rising from the Jacuzzi tub, which is nearly full; he balances her carefully on the edge as he turns off the faucet, and she moans as he helps her sick down beneath the water. Almost immediately she feels the difference in her body, gratefully sucking in the warm air, and she smiles as he carefully coaxes a mentholated cough drop into her mouth.
Ian stands to go but she moves with more speed than she thought possible, catching his wrist. He stills, an eyebrow quirked in question, and she asks, “Aren’t you going to join me?”
“I thought you’d like to relax.”
“I’ve taken three different meds with drowsiness warnings today, and you’re going to leave me unaccompanied in a bathtub?” Tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, she teases, “You trying to kill me?”
Ian smirks but dutifully shucks his clothing; Nina slides forward to allow him to slip behind her, and she immediately relaxes back against his chest.
“Much better,” she declares as he presses a kiss to her temple.
They sit in silence for a few minutes before Ian ventures, “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I take awesome care of myself,” Nina objects, wincing as her voice cracks.
He gently massages her shoulders as he divulges, “I worry about you. I don’t like to see you like this.”
“It’s just a bug,” she assures him.
“I don’t like it,” he reiterates, his voice whisper soft.
She twists a little, pressing her lips against his jaw. “I love you too.”
The next afternoon, as she slips into her dress and struggles to paint color back into her face, Ian comes up behind her, reaching around her body. Nina is about to ask what he is doing when she feels the light pressure against her collarbone. Glancing down, she finds herself staring at the most beautiful diamond necklace she has ever seen.
Turning to face, she gasps, “Ian - “
He cuts her off, his lips pressing against hers, his mouth tasting of toothpaste and champagne. When he pulls back, he grins and says, “You look beautiful.”
“You’re going to get sick, you know,” she points out after a beat, hand rising to touch the stone.
Ian grins. “Worth it.”
Author: lit_chick08
Pairing: Ian/Nina RPF
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: People are real; events in the story are not
Summary: The night before the Correspondents' Dinner
A/N: based off a prompt from earnmysong who wanted more Nian
Tomorrow evening, she is going to the White House, and all she wants to do is take two shots of Nyquil and sleep until September.
The dream dress is hanging on the back of the door, the flowing white material wafting gently in the artificial breeze from the fan. She had spent weeks hunting for the right dress, dragging Candice all over the known world to try on every color and style; when she put on the white Dolce dress and stepped out of the dressing room, the look on Candice’s face instantly let her know it was “the one.” Her best friend had also immediately taken a picture and sent it to everyone on the show.
Matt told her it looked like a wedding dress; Nina still likes to pretend like she hadn’t put the dress on in the privacy of her bathroom, held her hair up off of her neck, and assessed her bridal potential.
The idea of having to put on the dress tomorrow, fixing her hair and her make-up, and posing for the cameras is exhausting. She knows she should be excited, trying to ramp herself up and use the whole “mind over matter” thing Ian insists works (though, really, he had walking pneumonia for months, so maybe, just maybe, he’s wrong about that), but she doesn’t want to fake it till she makes it. She wants her mother’s chicken soup, the grubby sweats she stole from Ian, and the jar of Vicks which has not left her side in a week.
She knows she must have drifted off because she feels something likely tickling her face. Forcing her heavy eyes open, she sees Ian perched on the side of the bed, a gentle smile on his face.
“How’s the patient?”
“Dying,” she replies, an answer she does not find melodramatic in the slightest, especially given the pressure on her chest.
He touches her cheek softly before lowering his lips to her forehead. It is not quite a kiss, and Nina recognizes it as the same gesture his mother had performed months earlier when she came to visit during his bout with the plague. “You’re burning up.”
She whimpers as he tugs her into an upright position, bearing the majority of her weight against his shoulder. He shakes two Motrin from the bottle and she obediently opens her mouth, catching the pills on her tongue; it hurts to wash them down with water, her throat raw from coughing.
She lies back down, the world a little hazy around the edges, and she vaguely registers his movement to the bathroom. A few minutes later, Ian is back, slipping his hands beneath the hem of her sweatshirt and carefully drawing it off of her.
“Seriously?” she croaks. “This does it for you?”
He chuckles low in his chest. “Didn’t I ever tell you how hot I think mucous is? It’s a good thing you aren’t vomiting, Dobrev, because otherwise I would just fly into a frenzy.”
Nina laughs despite herself, obediently lifting her hips to be freed of her sweatpants. She feels like she should protest, say something about how she isn’t an invalid and demand an explanation, but the truth is, she likes this, how he takes care of her. As a rule, they are not the kind of couple who dote on each other; they are loving and affectionate (sometimes, according to Paul, who has shared many a hotel wall with them, a little too affectionate) but they do not baby each other.
She likes when he takes care of her. It makes her feel safe and loved, and if she wasn’t fairly certain she was going to soon be experiencing death by sinus infection, she would tell him that.
He lifts her easily, carrying her like a child into the bathroom. Immediately she can see the steam rising from the Jacuzzi tub, which is nearly full; he balances her carefully on the edge as he turns off the faucet, and she moans as he helps her sick down beneath the water. Almost immediately she feels the difference in her body, gratefully sucking in the warm air, and she smiles as he carefully coaxes a mentholated cough drop into her mouth.
Ian stands to go but she moves with more speed than she thought possible, catching his wrist. He stills, an eyebrow quirked in question, and she asks, “Aren’t you going to join me?”
“I thought you’d like to relax.”
“I’ve taken three different meds with drowsiness warnings today, and you’re going to leave me unaccompanied in a bathtub?” Tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, she teases, “You trying to kill me?”
Ian smirks but dutifully shucks his clothing; Nina slides forward to allow him to slip behind her, and she immediately relaxes back against his chest.
“Much better,” she declares as he presses a kiss to her temple.
They sit in silence for a few minutes before Ian ventures, “You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I take awesome care of myself,” Nina objects, wincing as her voice cracks.
He gently massages her shoulders as he divulges, “I worry about you. I don’t like to see you like this.”
“It’s just a bug,” she assures him.
“I don’t like it,” he reiterates, his voice whisper soft.
She twists a little, pressing her lips against his jaw. “I love you too.”
The next afternoon, as she slips into her dress and struggles to paint color back into her face, Ian comes up behind her, reaching around her body. Nina is about to ask what he is doing when she feels the light pressure against her collarbone. Glancing down, she finds herself staring at the most beautiful diamond necklace she has ever seen.
Turning to face, she gasps, “Ian - “
He cuts her off, his lips pressing against hers, his mouth tasting of toothpaste and champagne. When he pulls back, he grins and says, “You look beautiful.”
“You’re going to get sick, you know,” she points out after a beat, hand rising to touch the stone.
Ian grins. “Worth it.”