ph_logs | Rose's Sickfic Plague Pit

It's very uncommon for Dahlia to be properly sick. The closest she normally comes is displaying symptoms of anemia when she hasn't "eaten" in a while, but such instances are deliberate choices that she can prepare for. Her immune system is otherwise built like a tank.

But every so often, a bad cold goes around, and Dahlia finds herself immobilized by it.

She is currently laid up in bed, a fortress of blankets and pillows, barely distinguishable from a corpse.

"Hey," says Radar softly as he nudges open the door with one foot. "I got your lunch."

Fussing's kinda the job when you're a MASH clerk, and until the cold catches him, too, he's been handling this like a shift in post-op. (Only with more cuddling.) He sets a tray by the bed that's got a whole array of stuff on it. "We got soup, tea, some toast -- oh, the tea's already got honey and ginger and lemon in it -- and I refilled your hot water bottle while I was at it. Any of that sound good?"

With a groan, Dahlia peels herself away from her horrid chrysalis to sit up, sweat pinning her hair to her skin. "Honestly, nothing sounds good right now, but I know it'll help..."

A clean handkerchief is pulled from a small stack of folded ones. Dahlia has since abandoned the pretty ones she usually carries and instead reached for squares of plain or ugly fabric lucky to have a hem at all. She turns away from Radar to blow her nose, then grabs the toast, starting to nibble at the corner.

"Thank you for this," Dahlia says for the hundredth time.

"Of course," he says -- and even though he's also saying it for the hundredth time, he sounds no less gently astonished.

As she un-cocoons, Radar fluffs a couple of the pillows and straightens the blanket so she's more comfortable. "Any changes in how you're feeling?"

"If you'd asked me while I was lying down, I would have said I felt better, but now that I'm upright, I really do not." She lets out a hollow laugh. "I think my fever might be breaking, though. I don't feel as shaky and I don't get so many cold chills."

"Oh," he sighs. "My poor girl."

He presses a light kiss to her temple, taking the opportunity to check her forehead while he's there. "Yeah, you don't feel so warm anymore. That's good. But you're still kinda hot."

An embarrassed beat as he realizes what he just said.

"Runnin' kinda hot I mean."

Hot being used to mean sexy is something that offworlders brought to Pumpkin Hollow, so at first, Dahlia thinks nothing of it either. It's only when Radar himself brings attention to the matter that Dahlia notices at all.

A grin cracks her pallid face and she lets out a hoarse, rattling laugh. "I know what you meant, love," she teases. "Though honestly, I think you'd find a way to compliment me in just about any state at this point. People probably think I've put some kind of spell on you."

Radar shrugs, easygoing and earnest. "Well it's easy when you're so pretty and smart."

(You're not beating the charges, Radar.)

"Anybody who thinks you had to trick me just hasn't spent enough time around you."

"ACHOO!"

The abrupt sound rings out through the office, followed by an annoyed, quieter, "Cripes." There is a pile of tissues in Capochin's waste bin next to his desk, his coffee shockingly untouched as he miserably hunches over his paperwork.

Someone should tell him to take a break.

The latest sneeze, and the first one of the day Hector's been here for since his short trip out for errands, gets a look of surprise as Hector comes into the office with his own cup of coffee. He'd gotten a reassurance that this was just "allergies, probably", but considering how the level of tissues in that bin are only getting higher, he's not exactly convinced.

"Yew feelin' okay, Cappy?" Hector asks, giving him a skeptical brow and a worried little frown. "Yew're lookin'... a lil' rough."

Capochin looks up from his work, baggy-eyed and weary, a deep blue flush burning through the fur on his cheeks.

"What?" He asks slightly too loudly, despite Hector speaking at a reasonable volume. His ears are clearly congested enough that it's making it hard to hear.

Well, that just about cuts it. Between his volume and a better look at him, it's clear that a spring cold's gotten hold of him. Just like he used to do when they were younger, Capochin's trying to muscle through it like nothing's wrong.

And, just like Hector always used to, hands find his hips, and that doting sort of frustration rises to his face.

"Awright, yep, yew're sick. Pen down, mister," he starts, stepping over. He's not exactly good at taking care of other people--- he's barely good at taking care of himself--- but he's been fussed over while sick enough times to have a decent idea of how this ought to go. "It's rest n' rec-of-her-ee for yew today, c'mon."

"What? No, I'm fine! It's just a lil' hay fever, Hector, it goes away when them cobdamn flowering trees quit bloomin'! C'mon, I'm busy!" Capochin tries in vain to shoo Hector away, trying to get back to writing.

"Yeah, yew say dat every year, and yew know what happens? Couple days later, yew're too sick to move, 'cause yew woiked yewrself too hard!" Hector isn't deterred by the swatting, moving to press the back of his hand to Capochin's forehead, then the side of his face. "Cripes, yew're burnin' up, too! Yew're off-duty today. Boss's orders. Don't make me pick yew up to get yew away from dat desk."

"Don't you dare!"

Hector steps closer and lifts his hands threateningly. No bluffing here. He's done it before, and he has not learned anything from the last time it happened. He'll do it, consequences be Drained.

Immediately, Capochin starts to scramble away, claws out, snarling. He is going to bite Hector if he is grabbed.

It wouldn't be the first time Capochin has bitten him, and likely not the last. Such is the cost of love and care.

Quickly and playfully, with his comparative height to his advantage, Hector takes just two short steps before he's able to scoop Capochin into his arms, hoisting him up with his back to Hector's chest, both arms wound beneath Capochin's own, carrying him like a poorly-tempered cat.

"C'mon, yew nasty thing, right to beddy-bye with yew."

Much like a poorly-tempered cat, Capochin flails and wriggles, lashing his tail angrily. But he quickly succumbs to fatigue, as contrary to his prior assertions, he is indeed sick. But that won't stop this plague ridden idiot from biting his own fiance. So with the last vestiges of his strength, Capochin unleashes his swan song---- a devastating chomp to Hector's sleeve-covered arm.

"Wh--- ow, HEY! Would yew quit!?" Hector scolds him with a huff, not budging his arm from the bite as he starts to trudge up the stairs. "Peas louise, I could'a dropped yew! Then yew'd be sick and dropped, how're yew gonna deal with that? Huh? Gravity ain't no nicer 'cause yew ain't feelin' good. Trust me, learned that tha hard way."

"I've had woise," Capochin grumbles, flopping over as his last ditch attempt at freedom proves to be in vain. He instead turns on the drama, reaching forlornly back to his desk. "My scheduuuullleee."

"I'll finish it, don't yew worry yewr ailing lil' head." Hector hoists him just a bit higher, to lean down and kiss the top of his head. "Until yew start feelin' better, yew just leave every lil' thing to me, awright?"

Edited 2025-04-20 23:50 (UTC)

Capochin can only sniffle miserably in response. He hates being ineffectual, incapable. He's a Bizzyboy, cobdammit! He's supposed to be unstoppable! He sure as Drain didn't get here by being weak enough to get laid low by a stupid little cold.

But... it is nice to be cared for. The allure of being doted on quells his frustration. Especially by Hector. The sort of attention that would make a younger Capochin giddy.

(Okay, maybe somewhere in the cracked and aging recesses of Capochin's battered heart, he's still a little bit giddy even now. But no one gets to see that. That's between Capochin and the gods.)

"If ya say so," he finally mutters. "As soon as I start feelin' better, I'm gettin' back to it."

Edited 2025-04-20 23:52 (UTC)

"Sure t'ing! But until then, bed only."

With a little hum, Hector totes Capochin all the way up the stairs, depositing him into the bed once he's crossed their cozy little bedroom. He takes a few extra moments to find some particularly cozy pajamas and piles them into the bedside.

"There! Yew get changed n' get all cozy in bed, and I'lllllll..." He trails off thoughtfully, bringing a hand to rub at his chin. "See if we got anything good for soups! An' maybe some tea. Sham'o'meals is good for dis kind of thing, I think. Or the minty types. Yew want anything in part-ick-yew-lure?"

"Honey," Capochin wheezes. "S'good for sore throats. I could really use it in the tea. N'chammomile's good for sleep, so I'll take dat."

With a groan, he peels himself off the bed, feeling like he weighs a million pounds. But he won't be stopped by a change of clothes, even if his body would very much like to give out on him.

"Okie-dokie, yew got it. I'll be back here in juuust a lil' bit!"

And he's off. There's some clattering down in the kitchen, the sounds of him singing to himself, and occasional sounds of the front door opening and light conversation had with the Bizzyboys, but, true to his word, he returns after about an hour.

It's by no means marvelous--- he hasn't cooked for himself in some decades, only still yet fetching himself snacks--- but the chicken in the soup is cooked through, even if the broth, at this point, is lukewarm, and the noodles are a bit chewy. The tea smells more of honey than it does of chamomile; it's hard to say if it's because chamomile has a subtle smell, or he just used a fair bit of honey.

"Caaaaappy, yew still awake?" He calls gently into the room, nudging the door open with his hip to walk the little tray in sideways. "I got yewr healin' liquids all ready for yew!"

Capochin changes clothes as quickly as he can, into loose cotton pants and a matching button up. Then he collapses back into bed, just resting his eyes, unable to sleep for the racket but enjoying the sound. He loves listening to Hector sing. He's got a gorgeous tenor voice, and sings like no one's listening just any old time. There's such a warmth to the sound that all of the stress and discomfort just melts right out of Capochin to the point where he's lulled into something not quite sleep, just a gentle meditation.

The smell brings him back to himself, somehow penetrating his congestion. Maybe it's the steam carried with it. His eyes drift open slowly. "Mm, my liquids..." he mumbles, too delirious with exhaustion to realize how goofy he sounds. He heaves himself upright slowly. "Yeah, m'awake. You make all dat for me?"

"Who else, silly thing?" Hector teases, but waits until he's all the way upright and settled before he passes over the tray, fishing into the pocket of his pants where he'd stowed away the silverware to ensure he wouldn't accidentally leave them.

"Yew need anything else? Water, lil' treats, extra pillow? I could even borrow da desk over there n' work up here to keep yew come-pan-ee, if yew want."

The silverware in the pocket makes Capochin laugh softly, and he starts in on the soup. Sad that it isn't all that warm still, but his nose is too stuffy to notice any issues with the taste, and the noodles being a little bit too al dente is a Hector special. Awful if anyone else did them like this, but when it's Hector, it tastes like home.

The tea is nice and warm. Too sweet, but that's alright. Capochin isn't above guzzling honey straight if it means supressing his cough, so he drinks it fine.

"I'd worry 'bout you catchin' what I got if you hang around too much..." But it sounds like maybe he'd rather not be alone.

"Pfff, I'll be just fine if I work over here n' yew rest over there!" Hector waves off the concern. "Yew sit tight for just a minute, and I'll be right back!"

Out the door he goes once again, and after a trip down the stairs, and back into their office, he comes back up with a bundle of papers and writing implements tucked into his arms. The desk at the other side of the room is more of a place to catch assorted objects, so it takes some shuffling to clear it, but once things are set out of the way, he's able to get himself set up without too much fuss.

"I figure dis works better, anyhow," he prattles as he gets everything arranged. "That way, if yew need somethin', yew can flag me down real easy! But no backseat note take-king, yew hear me?" (The chiding is playful, of course, but this is something that's happened more than once in the past. The curse of being two people who have particular but very different ways of going about these things.)

"Yeah, yeah," Capochin grumbles, but there's no venom to it. He slowly eats his soup and drinks his tea, letting the steam break down some of the fog in his head.

So this is what it feels like to be loved. He'd nearly forgotten, in all this time. It feels so, so nice.

Finally, Capochin lays down and starts to actually go to sleep.

"Hey Hector?" He mumbles.

Edited 2025-04-21 19:34 (UTC)

"Mhm?" Hector's reply comes as a content little hum, the scratch of pen to paper stopping while he takes a glance back over his shoulder. There's a warm pride at seeing that his food went over well, and a fondness that's written all over him. "What'cha need?"

Feverish and dreamy, Capochin looks at him with heavy eyelids and a sluggish grin.

"I really, really love you. You're my favorite guy."

Hector's tail curls into a ridiculous little delighted curl, and that smile of his widens.

"Dat's a funny co-ints-ee-dents, because yew're my favorite guy, and I love yew, too," Hector turns a bit for a moment as he speaks, just to get a better look at Capochin. It's not often that he looks this relaxed, even if it is due to his illness. It's a lovely sight; hopefully, with time, Hector can get him to take a load off more often, without having to be convinced by a disorienting fever. "Get some good sleeps, love-lee."

Safe and warm despite the discomfort of illness, full of food and tea, and so in love, Capochin drifts off almost immediately. He snores loudly, his nose plugged by congestion. But he sleeps deeply, looking a bit like a teddy bear.

Perhaps when Hector is done working, he'll be willing to risk his own nose to get some cuddles.

The scheduling doesn't take all that long to complete, nor do the report reviews. There's probably more to be done, but when he stands up, taking a moment to be satisfied with his work, he takes a little look over to the bed. Capochin's out like a light, and looking incredibly cozy.

He shouldn't. He might wake Capochin up, there's other things to be done, the Bizzyboys working today really should have one of their bosses to look to for instruction, and there's a very solid chance that whatever he has, Hector could easily catch...

...But, on the other hand, the bed's looking awfully comfortable, and surely Capochin could use a little bit of morale-boosting snuggling?

Ah, what the Drain. Surely a few minutes won't hurt.

Boots kicked off and glasses set aside, Hector piles himself into his side of the bed, pulling himself close enough to pull Capochin into the last bit of closeness. Arms find their way around him, his chin sets atop ruffled hair, and his tail latches onto Capochin's own.

~~When he starts sneezing in a few days, it'll still be completely worth it.~~

The moment that Hector is in the bed, Capochin latches onto him without even really waking up, mumbling incoherently. His tail winds even tighter to Hector's. He's running hot, and sweat has soaked his clothes. But he is loved, and he loves deeply in return.

"Mmgh, soft," he mutters.

Edited 2025-04-22 19:31 (UTC)

"Mhm, gotta stay nice n' soft n' cozy," Hector murmurs, quiet and affectionate. "Yew get some good rest, Cappy."

-

A few days pass, and Hector does what he can to dote on Capochin through the worst of it - as soon as that fierce determination to be self-sufficient comes back, though, he's in no place to argue with it.

Not only because it's easier to let Capochin do things they way he prefers to, though, but due to the slow decline into feeling awful Hector's been inching into.

Back in his mortal life, before he'd ascended to godhood, he didn't get sick often; as it was with anything he struggled with, however, he muscled through it any way he could possibly manage, assured people that nothing was wrong, and saved sinking away and rotting in bed for his scarce few moments of downtime.

After several decades of not getting sick, and his instincts to keep his vulnerable parts hidden away now at war with the parts of him that are so desperate for his suffering to be seen, he's handling it... not especially well.

Despite waking up feeling worse than he'd gone to bed, the illness deciding to truly start to settle in, the former of those two instincts is the winner for the moment. He does what he can not to get too close to any of the Bizzyboys in particular to keep what he's got from spreading too much, but he maintains cheer where he can, writing off any concerns as allergies catching up to him.

This doesn't persist to when he's alone at his desk, charting out some plans to assist with some local gardening efforts, when the brainfog and fatigue gets the best of him, leaving him staring in a perplexed daze that teeters on anxious at the paper in front of him.

(The writing on it is borderline incomprehensible, and that isn't helping him sort out how to proceed literally at all.)

Working at a clinic, picking up something from a patient during cold season is a little bit inevitable, no matter how well Anya and Artemy try to keep things sanitized. So when Curly returns from his day aboard Mipha's Grace, it will be to the unusual sight of Anya not only home, but still in bed, apparently not having moved since he left for the morning. The only change in her position is that she's grabbed her sending stone, a sharp hunk of moonstone on a chain, evidently to call out of work. The chain is still looped around her hand as she snoozes away, snoring loudly the way she only does when she's terribly congested.

The knock on Anya's door is ginger and unmet, and with the spare key he'd been given some weeks ago, Grant lets himself inside. He comes with bag-in-hand; vegetables and stock and whatever teabags live in the furthest corners of his cabinets. A lackluster care package, maybe. But never lacking in intent.

Setting his things down, he crosses the living room on careful feet. Enters the bedroom and can't help but chuckle at what sounds like a grizzly bear snoozing the day away. Poor thing. Must be a bad one.

Curly sits on the foot of her bed. It depresses under his weight.

"Hey, Anya. You alive?"

"UuuuuUUUuuuuuugghHHHhhhHhhhhhhhh." A very detailed response. "Curly... I think I'm a gonner. Save yourself..."

A grin splits his features. "Not on my watch. I'm playing doctor today, didn't you know? I don't have the fancy jacket or stethoscope," He reaches out a bear-paw hand to sweep her bangs from her forehead. Awfully hot. A cool rag should do the trick. "But I think I've got the spirit. Picked up a couple things from my Ma."

Peeling away from the poor woman's bedside, he fetches a rag to wet, fills a pot with vegetable stock and water and sets it to boiling.

"You think it's work that got'cha sick?"

"I'm not sure," Anya says, sighing and rolling onto her back. "We see sick people every day, but also we clean well and wear masks. I think it's just flu season... Coulda got it from anywhere."

A deep hum vibrates Curly's throat. "Whatever it is, it won't last for long."

He joins Anya at the edge of the bed and lays the cool cloth across her forehead. "You eat anything yet today? I've got broth on the stove. If you can make it onto your feet, I could use some supervision cutting the veggies. I'll pull up a chair for you. Hell, I'll even carry you over to it."

"I'll make a poor supervisor," Anya grumbles. "But it might be good moral support for both of us. I think I can make it to the chair."

"That's the spirit," He says, rising from his spot and traveling the short distance to the kitchen, where he picks up a chair with great, almost unnecessary care for the object and places it beside the counter.

"Come on, then, miracle worker. Let's see what you've got."

Rose's Sickfic Plague Pit

Dahlia

For Radar

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Capochin

For Hector

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

skipping ahead a couple days! :3c

Anya

For Curly

Curly to the Rescue

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject