Rose's Sickfic Plague Pit

[thethirteenthchild]

I'm sick so I'm giving my characters my wretched cold. Specific characters available upon request. Intended to be very low effort. Starters in the comments!

Comments

For Curly

[cantstandthenoise]

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.

Curly to the Rescue

[changehurts]

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?"

[cantstandthenoise]

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

[changehurts]

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?"

[cantstandthenoise]

"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."

[changehurts]

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."

[cantstandthenoise]

"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."

[changehurts]

"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."

[cantstandthenoise]

"Uuuugh." Anya hauls herself from the bed while he's still setting up and has made it to the door frame by the time he calls for her.

"If I don't make it, tell Martini I love her," she mumbles, referring to the fretting Smoliv that hasn't left her side all morning. The same one that toddles after her as Anya trudges out to the chair, all but collapsing into it. "Oh thank God. I'm making you carry me back to bed."