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[perfectpaperbluebirds]

Prompt # 19: Addiction  

@sicktember Alternate prompt #4: Stay

Title: Unexpected Developments Part 2

Fandom: Pride and Prejudice

Find Part 1 under prompt # 8. Mr. Darcy is sick in bed and miserable. Elizabeth is trying to look after him, but his bad mood gets the better of him and tempers flare. Will sweetness or stubbornness win out in the end?

Elizabeth Bennett was the only guest at Netherfield who wasn't in bed with a cold. The virus Jane had caught riding to attend luncheon with Caroline had spread around the whole house, but it seemed Eliza was immune. Mr. Darcy had been the last to fall ill, and Lizzie had discovered him sneezing in a corner over a day ago while she remained perfectly healthy. It was fortunate she had discovered him though, for the servants were rushing hither and yon at the beck and call of their ill master and his sister, and poor Mr. Darcy would have been overlooked completely if Lizzie hadn't taken him under her care. 

Lizzie, for her part, was glad Jane's cold was much improved from the days prior. Since Jane needed little tending now, she had given Lizzie her blessing to give most of her attention to Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, for his part, was very accustomed to having a houseful of servants to do his bidding, and was little accustomed to being ill, strong and virile as he was. Because of these things, he was not the easiest patient, though he truly tried to make an effort to curb his frustration and not take his misery out on Elizabeth. Her lack of symptoms clearly perturbed him, however.

"How is it you are still in perfect health while I and everyone else are laid up with this beastly chest cold?" he griped that afternoon while Lizzie fussed around, tidying up dishes and rags from his bedside. If Lizzie wasn't accustomed to his voice by now, she would have had trouble understanding him, for his nose was stopped tight with congestion, and his voice raw and weak from coughing, rendering him nigh unintelligible. 

She giggled to herself. "Well you see, I believe I've already had this cold, for in the week prior to Jane's arrival here, my father, some of my other sisters and myself caught cold. We were envious of Jane's good luck in not falling ill at the time, but it seems it caught up with her in the end."

"Indeed," Mr. Darcy muttered sourly with a slushy sniffle.

"Oh don't be cross. It isn't so terrible lounging in bed all day, being waited on hand and foot is it?" 

"Yet when I find myself miserable in body, I find my mood tends to follow," he groused.

"Hmm." Elizabeth moved to his side, caressing his flushed face gently with the pad of her thumb. "It's just as I thought. You're only irritable like this when your fever is up, and indeed you are overwarm again. Jane's fever wasn't nearly so persistent."

"How fortunate for me," he mumbled to himself. Elizabeth tried to ignore his bad temper as she fetched her basin and rag. She wasn't fond of sarcasm, and his attitude was irking her more than she cared to let on. Tenderly as ever though, she began bathing his face and neck to try to bring down his miserable fever.

The cold water on his face made him gasp slightly, which became a cough, and the coughing only seemed to agitate him more. He usually enjoyed his face being bathed, but today he drew away from the rag. 

“Perhaps we should try another method for treating fever, since this does not seem to be effective,” said the sick man. His speech was curt and tense with foul temper.

Elizabeth gave him a long look, trying to keep her own temper under control. “What would you suggest, sir? We have tried willow bark, which made you feel more ill, and you will not have any other poultices,” she said in a measured, warning way.

“There must be something we haven't done yet. I would do anything to rid myself of this beastly cold, that came from *your* sister, I might add! You just said you already had  this cold. Think of something else to try!”

Elizabeth flew to her feet, tossing down the rag. “Perhaps you should go plunge yourself into an ice bath! That will surely help the fever, and I’m sure it will do wonders for your coughing and sneezing as well! But you can draw it yourself, and you can see to your own meals and entertainment too. You clearly feel my efforts are inadequate, so you can tend to yourself from now on. I am through with smoothing your insufferable pride and being a target for your bad mood. Good day, sir!”

With a whirl of skirts, she was out the door without a glance behind her. Elizabeth went straight to her room and lay down in the cool and quiet, for she was exhausted and careworn from nursing for a week straight. She fell asleep immediately and didn’t wake for several hours. 

She felt much refreshed when she did finally emerge. She first went to look in on Jane, who was overall back to normal, but was getting bored sitting around and eager to go home. On questioning the staff, they learned that Caroline had mostly recovered as well. Mr. Bingley was recovering slower, but getting better all the time. The sisters wished him a speedy recovery by way of the servants, for as soon as he was recovered, they would be able to return home.

After visiting with Jane for some time, Elizabeth desired to find a quiet corner and read. To her chagrin, she realized she had left her book in Mr. Darcy’s room. She did not relish seeing him again so soon after they parted so badly, but she had no choice if she wanted her book back. With a sigh, she made her way to his room with hesitant steps. She knocked softly before entering, which felt odd since she had been coming and going freely for two days prior. His hoarse, weak voice bid her come in.

He was in quite a different state than he had been a few hours before. Where he had previously been fitful and agitated, now he seemed weak and lethargic. Even in the dim light she could see how sweat-matted his hair was, and the dark ring on his pillow. He lifted his head up to see who had entered, and his sleepy eyes flickered with confusion upon seeing her. 

“I only came to get my book. I apologize for disturbing you,” she said stiffly, hardly looking at him. She snatched up the volume from the table where it lay and turned to go back out, intending to say nothing else.

“Wait.” 

She paused, and turned slightly, her good breeding winning over. “Yes?”

He sat up a bit straighter, coughing weakly as he did so. “I am deeply sorry for how I behaved earlier. My treatment of you was inexcusable after all you’ve done for me these past days--” Here he had to pause to press his handkerchief to his dripping nose before he could continue. Elizabeth waited silently. “I was a beast and feel very much like a fool. Please forgive me,” he managed, mumbling through the damp fabric. His eyes shone earnestly above the hand holding the linen in place.

Her face softened. “I accept your apology, and thank you for it. No one acts quite themself when they’re ill, so I gladly forgive you. I’m sorry too for my part in all of it.”

They shared a tiny smile as he tended to his nose with a thick, gurgling blow, and she knew she was forgiven also. Immediately the tension between them was cleared.

Now that they had made up though, she was reluctant to leave him alone again, for he looked so weak and forlorn and in need of care. However, she was a woman of her word. She spoke as she moved to the door, putting her hand on the knob. “You must rest, Mr. Darcy, so I'll leave you be. I truly apologize for waking you.”

“Miss Elizabeth?” 

Once more she turned to meet his eyes.

He held out a shaking hand. “Please… stay.”

She slowly returned to his side. “For what purpose, sir?”

“I… I desire your company… and your aid. You are… a far better caregiver than I, and I was a fool to imply otherwise. It… it won't happen again,” he croaked thickly. 

Seeing the effort he was making to be overly polite softened Eliza's heart further. She let him take her hand in his warm grasp, a smile playing around her lips. “If you insist. I will stay.”

He smiled also as he drew her hand toward himself. "Here, let me show you something," he snuffled. He placed her wrist against his neck, just as she had done many times over the past few days. He sighed softly as their skin made contact.

“Your fever has broken,” she murmured happily. “You are cool at last.”

“Yes.”

“How did you do it?” she asked, withdrawing her hand. “Did you plunge yourself into an ice bath after all?”

He stifled a cough before he could speak. “I… tried willow bark again, as you recommended. I felt worse… at first, but I fell asleep to ease the symptoms. When I woke, the fever had left me, and I felt… much clearer in mind. The fever was causing my foul mood, as you insightfully noted.” Yet another long speech, and now his voice was barely audible as he sniffled furiously and trembled with fatigue. 

“Yet you seem somewhat worse for wear, for you’re completely exhausted, poor man.”

“This illness has left me weary to my bones, it is true. Yet I could not have slept soundly tonight knowing I had offended you. It would be an understatement to say I was very glad when you returned, though I did not expect or deserve a second chance.” His eyes were getting heavier by the moment, and he yawned almost before he finished speaking, reclining back against his pillows once more.

Elizabeth brushed the sweaty curls from his forehead as his eyes drifted closed, then let her hand rest on his cheek for a moment, reassuring herself that his fever was truly gone. He lazily covered her hand with his, a content smile flickering across his face. 

She couldn’t help but smile in response, though he couldn’t see it. “Take some rest, Mr. Darcy. All is forgiven, and I will be here when you wake.” She gently tried to pull her hand away from his face. He quickly interlaced his fingers with hers to prevent this.

“You’ll truly stay?” he murmured sleepily, sniffling.

Leaving her hand on his cheek, she perched on the edge of his bed, so close their hips were almost touching. She saw him smile again as she did so. 

“Of course I will,” she murmured back, her eyes never leaving his face as he peacefully drifted to sleep.

[snowbellewells]

Self-Promo Sunday: “Under the Weather”

This is just a little post-Neverland one-shot, taking place sometime after they've returned to Storybrooke with Henry. Pan's gone, and there is no second curse. It was probably originally inspired (some years ago) by cold January weather and my wondering how Hook manages to keep warm and not get sick on a freezing cold old ship. And cold January weather brought it back to mind today to dig out for Self-Promo Sunday. Anyway, pretty sweet and fluffy, I'll admit it, but I still hope you enjoy - even all these years later and after how much closer our pirate and princess became...

"Under the Weather"

By: @snowbellewells​

Also available on ff.net or AO3

If anyone had asked her, Emma Swan couldn't have explained why she felt the sudden prickling of concern in the back of her mind, nor the unexpected, pressing need to make sure he was alright. Shaking her head at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea, she had fought against her impulses all day. She had busied herself with paperwork and answered calls about power outages and other inconveniences that came with the cold, wintry Maine weather, but there weren't enough jobs by early afternoon to keep her mind from wandering back to him and her eyes from every so often floating up to check the clock.

David knew something was bothering her; Emma could feel her father's eyes studying her for clues to her agitation. However, he was also wise enough to bite his tongue and not ask questions. She wanted to tell him to go on home to Snow, and she would finish up. Yet she didn't, knowing that would only make him more curious. Resolutely, stubbornly, she kept finding any bit of busy work she could lay her hands on to stop the disconcerting waves of concern for him that were now rolling through her at regular intervals.

'He's a 300-year-old pirate captain, for Heaven's sake!' her mind berated her seeming irrationality. 'He can certainly take care of himself in a sleepy little town. What in the world could he need you for? You haven't had word of any kind of trouble…' Still, while all of these arguments made perfect, reasonable sense, Emma found they didn't soothe her unease in the slightest.

When the clock finally struck five, David stood casually, announcing that since they weren't busy he was going to head home and help Snow with supper, if Emma didn't need anything. Emma shook her head 'no' with a small smile, thanking him and saying she would see him shortly.

"You're sure I can't do anything else to help before I leave?" her father asked sincerely, again looking at her so closely that Emma knew he was trying to divine her thoughts.

"Positive," she reiterated with a definite nod, giving him a playful smirk and waving him out the door. "I'll call if anything comes up, but I should be right behind you in an hour or so."

Once her father had left her to her own devices, Emma tossed the case files she had been pretending to read across the surface of her desk and gave up all pretense of working. Standing up and beginning to pace, she at last admitted to herself that the worry swirling inside her for Hook was not going away – in fact, it was only growing stronger. Taking one last glance around the interior of the station, she realized that she wasn't going to get anything else done, and she wouldn't have any peace until she put her awful hunch to rest. Hook was going to tease her mercilessly about her concern for him, but apparently she was going to have to live with that. The fact that he tended to haunt her steps and turn up anywhere she might be, made it especially disconcerting that she hadn't seen or heard from him in three days. At least, she was telling herself that was all it was.

She grabbed her jacket, hit the lights, locked up, and was headed for her car before she could fight with herself any longer. Parking the bug at the docks, Emma stepped out, straightened her clothes, and steeled her nerves before striding purposefully to the spot at the far end where the Jolly Roger had been anchored since their return from Neverland. Normally, the Captain was so alert and aware that the moment he heard anyone nearing his ship he would have already been standing on deck looking down in challenge, but Emma didn't see any sign of him.

Walking up the gangplank, she let her boots stomp and echo loudly; giving him fair warning that she was coming aboard and expecting him to appear any minute with an "Oi! Who goes there?" and brandished sword, but she was greeted with nothing but silence. Finding her footing on the familiar wooden deck, Emma actually experienced a strange sense of welcome reunion. Since they weren't hiding from Pan and Henry was safe, it was actually nice to be on the sturdy ship once more. She could have really grown to like the adventure and thrill of sailing, if the situation had been different and her son hadn't been in danger. She didn't linger in her nostalgic thoughts for long though. Trailing a gloved hand fondly along the ship's side, she moved toward the open door of the stairway which led below decks. Poking her head in, she tried calling out, "Hook?! Are you here?"

Again she got no response, so tamping down the feeling of trespass, she entered the darkness of the stairwell and stepped lower, growing more concerned all the time. 'Where had the insufferable idiot gotten to? And even more disturbing, why did she care?'

Remembering the lower level of the ship from their time in Neverland, she found her way down the hallway with a guiding hand along the wall, even though evening dusk was closing in and none of the hanging lanterns were lit. She passed the crew quarters that the rest of them had stayed in and didn't stop until she reached the room at the furthest end of the ship – the Captain's quarters. Pausing for a second, she drew in a quick, tight breath and then rapped her knuckles on the door. "If you're in there, Pirate, you'd better answer me," she warned, before adding with wry humor, "and I hope you're decent, because I'm coming in."

Whatever she had been expecting, the sight that met Emma's eyes when she entered Hook's chamber was not it. He was there, but the laughter that had been about to erupt at bursting in and catching him by surprise died in her throat when she got her first good look at him.

He was curled up in his bunk, even though it was barely 5:30, and he looked dead to the world, completely unaware of her presence despite all her yelling and stomping around. Even from across the room, she could see those unfairly long, gorgeous eyelashes flutter fitfully as he hovered not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake, and he rolled from his side to his back with a pitiful, low groan.

"Hook?" she questioned worriedly, her voice small as she walked toward him, already stretching out a hand hesitantly. Once she got close enough to touch him, she nearly jerked back on contact; his skin was burning with fever under her fingertips. Emma gasped in surprise and leaned in closer, now truly concerned that he wasn't responding to her. She swiped her hand up his sculpted cheekbone to brush under the fringe of his dark hair and feel his forehead, equally hot and clammy from dried sweat.

It might have been the cool feeling of her hand on his flushed skin, but those stunning blue eyes, looking much more bleary and unfocused than usual, finally forced their way open to gaze at her in confusion. "Swan?" he mumbled, his voice sounding ragged and raw, probably from coughing, she realized sympathetically, "What are you…? Am I dreaming?"

She shook her head, smoothing his damp hair back and trying to calm her heart, which was now fluttering erratically at seeing him so vulnerable. "No, I'm here, Hook….I…" she hesitated, feeling that maybe she was giving too much away, "I just had a feeling…that something was wrong…that you needed help."

Hook started to smirk at her and, she was sure, offer some sort of smug comment on her admission, but he was shaken by violent tremors just then, shivering uncontrollably and a gruff sort of moan escaped against his will instead.

Her heart went out to him. Emma had honestly never pictured the man getting ill; he had survived a violent amputation, the Dark One's hand squeezing his heart, the rough, dangerous adventures of a pirate, and centuries of life in more than one realm. She would almost want to tease him for being felled by something as simple as the flu – if she weren't so concerned at the condition she found him in. She couldn't help wondering how long he had been lying there like that. Had he taken too much of a chill before she even arrived? What would have happened if she hadn't felt so compelled to come looking for him?

Reaching her other hand out in an effort to take his good one, Emma heard Hook's breath wheeze disturbingly as his mouth fell open, obviously trying to get a deeper breath through what must be badly congested lungs. "We'll be lucky if you haven't holed up in this drafty old boat and let your flu turn into bronchitis, Buddy," she chided him.

He tried to chuckle good naturedly, she could tell, but it became a wracking fit of coughs that made him clutch at his ribs and squeeze her hand in his, as if for reassurance that she was still there. "Hang in there," she whispered, squeezing back. "You're going to be okay." He barely nodded, but then his eyes fluttered closed and he didn't respond to her anymore. His loud, openmouthed, stuffy breathing let her know not to be alarmed, but Emma took the chance to look away from him and glance around the cabin.

There was a fireplace, but he had obviously not even felt strong enough to get up and tend it, as it had sunk to embers and was about to go out. She felt her own teeth nearly chattering it was so chilly in the room. He should probably be taken to someone's house – or to the hospital – but she didn't think she could move him alone, or that he was going to be able to stand and help her much.

Forcing herself to clear her head and draw in a deep, steadying breath, Emma tried to focus on one problem at a time. She pulled her hand from his clasp, and then patted his arm gently as if to reassure him she would only be a minute, though he made no movement and seemed out of it again. Stepping to the other side of the room, Emma took the poker from the mantle and stoked the fire until the embers flickered to a bit more life and then added a couple new logs. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't looking, and then began to rummage carefully through the heavy old trunk she spotted in the corner until she found a few more blankets than the single one that Hook was already using – which must have already been on the bed. He was obviously sweating and feverish, but she knew that he was still chilled and needed to stay covered.

Coming back to his bedside, she sat tentatively on the edge of his bunk, just next to his hips and gently spread both blankets over his inert form, tucking them in with a level of care and concern that bewildered, frightened, and warmed her all at once. Hook didn't even open his eyes, but let out a breathy sigh and murmured in a voice even lower and rougher than usual, "Emma…you came…"

Her name on his lips with such pure and simple affection stilled her motions and she froze for a moment, hands hovering over him as if she had forgotten how to move. Blinking, Emma came back out of her trance and stood again, looking around to see that the fire was crackling and the room was already less cold. With a nod of approval to herself, she quickly escaped above deck for a moment.

She knew her first call should be her parents, to let them know she wouldn't be coming for supper after all. However, she dreaded explaining to her suspicious, overprotective father why she had felt the need to check on Captain Hook and now didn't want to leave him sick and alone. So she put it off by calling Ruby first, knowing the other woman was about to get off work at the diner and asking her to pick up some orange juice, bottled water, cough syrup, and Kleenexes, and bring them to the Jolly, promising she would explain when Ruby arrived. Then, once she couldn't put it off any longer, Emma was relieved to get Snow on her parents' phone. Her mother actually seemed concerned about the Captain as well and wanted to help, but Emma managed to dissuade her – for reasons she didn't even want to study too carefully. She informed her mother she would be back in the morning, once she made sure Hook had some fluids in him and his fever had broken, and they ended the call.

She paced on the deck until she saw Ruby striding down the dock – sashaying was more like it. The female wolf had a sort of wild grace even in her human form that Emma wasn't ashamed to admit she envied. Emma gave Snow's best friend a wave, and Ruby grinned widely, holding up the bag of requested items. Emma thanked her, explained what was going on, paid Ruby, and tried not to dwell on how anxious she was to get back to Hook and make sure he wasn't any worse.

"You've got it bad and don't even know yet," Ruby murmured, eyes twinkling mischievously at Emma.

Emma felt her hackles rise as she shot back defensively, "What are you talking about?"

Ruby just raised an eyebrow at Emma, giving her a look that said she might be fooling herself, but it was right there for anyone else to see. "You can't lie to someone with a canine sense of smell," Ruby smirked teasingly. "The pheromones are literally rolling off of you in waves. Not that I blame you…" she paused, licking her lips almost predatorily, "…that swagger, those eyes, and all that leather…"

Emma snorted indelicately, rolling her eyes at the waitress' antics and turning Ruby to give her a push towards the gangplank. "You're crazy!" she added, laughing even as her pulse raced with the truth and she hoped the other woman couldn't sense that too.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Sheriff," Ruby called back as she sidled off with a wave. "I'll let you go…for now. But I want details later." She turned once to wink at Emma, then she was gone, her chuckling at Emma's expense fading behind her.

Once Ruby had left, Emma redirected her steps below; trying to wipe her mind clean of the werewolf's teasing and her heart's whispering that was true. She stepped back into Hook's cabin, eyes immediately drawn to him across the room as she rooted through the bag to pull out the medicine and a bottle of water. She moved closer, only to see that he was shaking, teeth chattering, limbs shuddering enough that the blankets were sliding off him. His eyes were no longer closed, and they rolled up to meet hers weakly as he coughed harshly, sounding as though it raked his chest raw. "No need to gawk at me, Emma love, it's embarrassing enough having you here when I'm like this." He didn't get any more out though as the effort of speaking set off another coughing fit. Trembling, he suddenly wouldn't look her in the eyes.

She took pity on his pride and leaned in to help him sit, offering the plastic cup of cough syrup.

Hook wrinkled his nose, looking at it doubtfully for a moment, then glanced to her, "What is this, Lass?"

"Medicine, you stubborn pirate," she laughed, shaking her head at his hesitation and holding it out to him again. "Come on, I'm trying to help. We need to get some liquids in you."

He held out his hand to take the cup from her, but his fingers trembled so badly that Emma could see he was going to spill it all if he did. With a sigh, she brought it to his lips instead, tilting it so he could swallow, and gasped slightly, feeling a tingling sensation run through her hand as her knuckle brushed his chin. Their eyes locked together at the shock of the contact and neither moved until he shivered violently again, the shakes actually rattling his teeth and jerking them from the strange sort of reverie they had entered.

"Go on, Beautiful," he grit out, lying back as comfortably as he could manage and averting his eyes, "can't have you getting sick too. I'll survive. It will not be the first time in 300 years that I've been ill."

Something about the way he said those words and the look in his eyes stopped Emma cold. Her insides squeezed painfully at the thought of him suffering like this before with no one to rely on or even care if he recovered or not. That realization alone made her more determined than ever to take care of him, despite him being too proud to ask for help or want to trouble her. She shook her head, leaning with him as he tried to back away from her. "Nope, sorry, Hook. You're stuck with me." She held out the water bottle next. "Here, drink up."

His eyes narrowed, and he tried to growl at her, but the menacing effect was ruined by his raw throat and how pathetic it ended up sounding. "I'm not an infant, Swan." He grumbled a bit more, but drank about half the bottle with her holding it for him, before he stopped with a short sigh of frustration. "Go on. You must have better things to do, and I don't wish to impose."

"Really?" she shot back at him, arching a brow at his attitude, but not put off by it for a second. It was scary how alike they were; she could tell he detested looking vulnerable in front of her, or anyone. If she was honest with herself, she probably acted the same way anytime she was sick. "Stop being such a baby, Hook," she added, kicking her boots off and hanging her coat over his desk chair, "and slide over."

She nearly laughed out loud at his startled expression, and his confused, "Swan? What are you on about?"

"You're sick. You're cold. You need someone to look after you. I'm the only one here, so I'm not leaving. However, I'm tired, and it's chilly, so scoot over."

For a second, she thought he was going to fight her, and she wasn't sure if he was embarrassed, worried she would get sick, or if he truly was – despite all his innuendo – the gentleman he had always claimed to be. A round of chills and coughing gripped him again though, and once his head dropped to the pillow once more in defeat, she knew she had won. "Scoot," she ordered again, lifting the covers to crawl in next to him once he did.

So close to him, Emma realized how clammy and chilled Hook truly was. He had felt like he was burning up earlier, but the shivers would be hard to miss, curled up next to him as she was. To her amusement, as reluctant as he had seemed moments before, Hook was now pulling her closer. "You're so warm, Emma," he murmured, his arm coming to rest across her middle and shooting heat through her veins.

"You're a little bit out of your head right now, aren't you?" she teased him, still genuinely concerned, but also touched at the fact that he had allowed her comfort, feeling needed and wanted right where she was. Without thinking, or stopping to second guess what her hand did instinctively, she began to lightly stroke her fingers through his coarse, black hair, sifting it soothingly and watching as his breathing smoothed out and his forehead came to rest in the crook of her neck. It gave her an adorable little thrill in her stomach at the sight of him looking so young and unguarded, as if his burdens had lifted away.

"Emma," he murmured out under his breath, and neither the scratchiness nor the softness could mask the gentle affection in his voice.

Her heart stuttered, wondering what he was thinking as he whispered her name in his sleep. For a second, she wanted to panic and bolt, but then she realized how lovely the moment actually was. She could honestly lie right there with him and never want to move away. Occasionally, a small little tremor still ran through him, but they seemed to finally be lessening. She smirked wryly to herself, knowing that if she was smart, she would be out of his bed by morning, before he woke up feeling better and ready to plague her mercilessly for all of this. She lightly traced her hand in circles on his back, hoping he was warm enough and that she had gotten enough medicine down his throat.

Shaking her head, Emma chuckled at the way he had curled himself around her protectively, smiling in his sleep unawares. She felt her own eyelids growing heavy, and the thoughts that had troubled and distracted her all day simply floated out of her mind. She was almost grateful she had the excuse to be so close to him and hold him; she would never have done it otherwise. Defining this could wait; she was going to enjoy the moment while it lasted.

Tenderly, she tilted her head just a bit to place a light little kiss to his forehead, amazed at how beautifully at peace he looked in sleep, then cuddled deeper into their embrace. Deciding just this once not to be in control, but simply to feel, she allowed her eyes to close and followed her pirate's lead, drifting off to sleep at his side.

(I was originally so flattered that "Under the Weather" received so many nice reviews, that though I really only had that one-shot in mind, the requests for the next morning caused me to re-think and come up with this. After all, good reviews are nearly as irresistible as Killian Jones' smile. It's (again) pretty sweet and fluffy...)

Epilogue: The Next Morning

Rays of warm, golden sunlight filtered into his cabin, tickling Killian Jones' face and waking him groggily from sleep. He yawned, intending to roll over and go back to sleep, when he froze, his movement arrested in shocked surprise at discovering that he was not alone in his bunk. He stiffened, years of being on guard and ready for attack taking over unconsciously as he turned his head tentatively to the side. Despite the lingering stuffiness and congestion in his head and the weak sensation in his limbs, he was pirate enough to have already reached for the cutlass he had stowed at his other side before lying down the night before, tucked hidden between the edge of the bunk and the wall. However, the vision that greeted his eyes stilled his actions and stole his very breath.

Emma Swan was curled up next to him, actually cuddled into his side, her long, blonde tresses arrayed across the pillow with the sunlight glancing off them in a glowing halo. She let out a sweet little sigh and nuzzled her face into his shoulder, bringing her hand to rest unknowingly on his chest. There was a look of such peace on her face, that he had never seen her wear in waking hours, and it completely enchanted him.

Killian knew without a doubt that if he woke her, she would run – shut him out again, pick up her cares once more, and reinforce her walls. It pained him, but he knew it to be true, as surely as he breathed. He wanted desperately, more than he had any right to hope, for her to stay. Emma had come to him, cared for him, when he was ill and alone, and it had kindled a longing in him that she would trust him enough to stay always. From the moment he had met her, with her fiery eyes and stony determination, a modern woman out of her element in the Enchanted Forest, he had been drawn to her as strongly as had been pulling away from him. She didn't want to be abandoned as she had been before, so she had made sure to leave him first. He had been following her ever since. Her turning up last night changed the game. Suddenly, he was not the only one who cared.

Emma's brow furrowed in her sleep, as if something in her dreams troubled her, and hoping to soothe her, Killian reached over to brush a finger across her cheek, feather light, then smoothed the crinkled skin between her eyes. He was hoping to ease her back into quiet slumber, not wanting her to wake, or for this dream to end. It was as if he had wakened into a serene moment of refuge from the world that had been nothing but a bitter storm of hate and cruelty for as long as he could remember – until she entered it.

Her lovely face smoothed again, and she mumbled sleepily, a tiny smile quirking one corner of her perfect, tempting mouth. She practically hummed the word that he leaned in to hear. "Killian…" she whispered, her tone sounding so warm and happy caressing his given name that he could not help but smile and long for the day when she might speak it to him with that much affection while awake.

It didn't matter that his throat was still raw and he would kill for a drink. He tried to stifle the need to cough, for fear it would jostle the golden-haired angel who had now rolled over to face him and twined her legs with his as surely as she had twined her grasp around his heart. He hardly dared to breathe, much less move, but he was still staggered by how much better he felt just being able to clumsily sift his calloused fingers through the strands of her silky mane.

Sunlight might have been pouring in to wake them, but he was going to ignore it for the chance to have this incredible, broken, infuriating woman in his arms as long as her possibly could. "I love you, Emma lass," he whispered hoarsely under his breath, placing a kiss to her temple. Then he closed his eyes, not sure if he could actually manage sleep with her so near, but needing to savor this moment. So gently it was almost imperceptible, he cradled her even closer to the warmth of his body, glad he had woken to find her still there.

Someday, he did desire to wake her with languid kisses trailing down her neck and along her collarbone, whispering endearments before either keeping her in his bed all day to love her as she deserved or venturing out to fetch her breakfast and talk to her and she readied for a new morn. Yet he knew that day had not yet come. He would not rush her. Instead, he would celebrate the step she had taken in allowing him to know of her concern for his well-being. He would hold her close enough to memorize and treasure the feeling – in all probability, she would fight its happening again anytime soon – and be glad she had given him reason to hope. Killian touched one flaxen strand of her hair, twirled it around his finger for a moment, and then tucked it behind her ear. "I can wait as long as you need, Emma," he whispering fervently. "I have all the time in the world."

Tagging a few who may enjoy (or did before): @effulgentcolors​ @let-it-raines​ @spartanguard​ @kmomof4​ @jennjenn615​ @teamhook​ @revanmeetra87​ @winterbaby89​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @thislassishooked​ @laschatzi​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @searchingwardrobes​ @hollyethecurious​ @sherlockianwhovian​ @killian-whump​ @thisonesatellite​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @shireness-says​ @snidgetsafan​ 

[bigtimetired]

Softly, Softly

a one-shot in a wider (v unfinished i’m suffering help) au- nearly complete age-swap, set in the 90s for some godforsaken reason, this fic set not too long after damian moves in w bruce- i think that’s all that matters? just under 4k, mostly under the cut- anyway:

12th November 1990

Winter in Gotham is never easy.

It’s generally agreed that the going gets tough from the end of November to the start of February, and things are- not easy, never easy, but more doable- up until that point.

It’s early-ish November- the air is getting chilly, there’s frost on the ground in the mornings. It’s starting to get cold and sharp out, though at this point a person could get away with a regular jacket during the day.

It’s the easiest part of a Gotham winter.

Of course, Dick’s little brother doesn’t seem to have gotten this particular memo.

In retrospect, Dick blames himself for not noticing sooner and nipping it in the bud. The signs had been there for god knows how long; the quiet sniffles, late night rasps, sluggish reactions.

But anyway, the point is that Dick didn’t realise earlier, which is what has them where they are now; Jason bundled up in his hoodie and coat, Dick’s scarf and a hat they found lying around, shivering miserably, and Dick sacrificing his own jacket to act as a blanket.

Jason sniffs again and Dick winces- it sounds disconcertingly liquid.

“Don’t need all this,” Jason half-whispers, weakly waving his hand at his sickbed- his usual mattress, and a sofa cushion arranged in order to prop him up against the wall. It’s debatable how long he can actually sit up unassisted at this point.

Dick hums noncommittally and makes sure their meagre rations are within Jason’s reach- half a bottle of water, a squished bar of chocolate, and two tissues. This isn’t good. They need more.

Is Daly’s still open?

“’M serious,” Jason insists, and Dick nods.

“Whatever floats your ship.”

Jason blows out a heavy, congested, breath. “’s boat, Dickers.”

“Really? Why?”

Jason frowns for a moment, looking so concerned that Dick regrets asking.

“Dunno,” he admits eventually. “Prob’ly ‘cause it rhymes.”

Jason starts coughing then- a sharp noise which sounds like it’s being pulled out of him. The fit fades as quickly as it started- the ragged breathing and rosy cheeks do not.

Dick hands Jason the water bottle; helps him hold it steady when it becomes clear that his hands are still trembling too badly to do it himself.

When Jason’s breathing regularly again, Dick asks, “How’re you feeling?”, even though he already knows what his little brother will say.

Jason grins, pale green eyes blinking slowly. “On top of the world.”

Dick reaches out and tries to measure Jason’s temperature with his hand. Jason pulls the sort of face that only a ten-year-old can muster but stays put.

Dick frowns- Jason’s kinda clammy.

“Ew,” he says out loud, making a show of wiping his hand off on Jason’s sleeve. Internally he makes up his mind. I have to go.

Jason grins again and lets out a quiet noise which would ordinarily be a snort. “You’re ew.”

Dick settles down next to Jason’s mattress, even though he has no intention of staying put for too long.

“Go to sleep, Jay- you’re already nearly there.”

“Am not,” comes the weary reply.

“Uh-huh.”

“F’ck off, Dickolas.”

“Can’t- who else will wipe your nose for you?”

“Asshole,” smiles Jason, eyes already nearly closed. His expression changes then. “You’ll still be here when I wake up, right?”

Dick pauses- takes in the genuine worry wrinkling around Jason’s mouth, the uneven intakes of breath- and comes to the sudden, stomach-churning, realisation that Jason is too sick to be left alone.

It’s with a heavy heart that he abandons his plans to sneak out for a supply run.

“Duh. Now go to sleep, lil’ wing.”

Jason pulls another face, eyes closed now. “Gotta stop callin’ me that.”

“Nah.”

Jason tries to snort again and doesn’t say anything else. Dick keeps perfectly still for what feels like the longest time, watching Jason’s chest rise and fall.

His only reassurance is that, despite the audible wheeze of his lungs, Jason’s breaths are still perfectly regular.

Dick carefully pushes a slightly sweaty curl away from Jason’s face, trying not to focus on how Jason’s usually faint freckles seem a great deal more vivid at the moment.

He’ll be okay.

He has to be.

 Jason wakes up around when the air in the attic is getting cool enough for Dick to have to start stretching in an attempt to stay awake; the cold has always made him sleepy.

Jason’s breath stutters, once, twice, and Dick’s head whips around, heart pounding.

Jason’s breath resumes a noticeable pattern, and Jason peers over at Dick.

“Hey,” Dick smiles, trying to project a calm and certainty that he doesn’t feel. “How’re you now?”

Jason swallows, licks his lips. “Hurts,” he whispers, and Dick’s smile drops instantly.

“What does? What hurts Jay?”

Jason shifts slightly, wincing. “Everything.”

With no small amount of dread, Dick lays his hand on Jason’s forehead again.

Jason is burning up.

Dick exhales, and makes Jason drink some water as he thinks.

“Okay,” he says quietly, more to himself than to Jason, “it’s all okay.”

It isn’t really. Dick is nowhere near as calm as he’d like to be- as he needs to be.

He doesn’t know what to do- Jason’s never been this sick before, and Dick isn’t sure what’s wrong; if Jason needs medicine or if he can sleep it off, if they should be seeing a doctor or if they can get by on their own.

It’s a lot for a twelve-year-old to deal with but deal with it he must. For Jason’s sake.

Jason’s had enough water- Dick takes the bottle from him before he accidentally drops it.

“Have some of this,” he says, grabbing the bar of chocolate.

“Not hungry,” says Jason quietly, just as he did the last time Dick offered it.

“I know, Jaybird, but you gotta eat if you want to get better,” Dick says, rubbing Jason’s shoulder carefully. He seems terribly small and breakable all of a sudden.

Jason still doesn’t seem all that convinced about the whole ‘eating’ thing. Dick decides to pull out the big guns.

“Please, Jay.”

Jason nods reluctantly and begins the incredibly long endeavour of eating a bar of chocolate with as little effort as possible.

He’s sneezed a good eight times by the time the wrapper is empty, but Jason looks marginally more awake now and Dick hopes that the pink tinge to his cheeks is a sign of health.

The water is almost gone, the tissues are used up and absolutely disgusting, and they’re completely out of anything the least bit edible.

Jason is still far too hot, still sweating, and now starting to shiver.

Shit.

Dick doesn’t know all that much about illnesses but he’s fairly sure that shivering like that when you’re not cold at all isn’t a good sign.

“Jay,” Dick tries his hardest to sound both soothing and supremely confident and not at all afraid, “Jay, we don’t have enough things here for you to get better. I’m gonna have to- “

Jason’s eyes widen, and he moves the quickest he has in nearly three days to grab Dick’s wrist in an iron-grip.

“No,” he hisses, “no, you promised you’d stay. You promised.”

“Jay,” says Dick softly, “I- “

“Please, Dick, please don’t go- I don’t wanna be alone- please- “

There are actual tears welling up in Jason’s eyes all of a sudden, and Dick’s heart twists horribly.

“Hey,” he says gently, “hey- I’m not gonna leave you alone, okay? I- uh- “

Dick swallows and then makes what many people might call a terrible decision.

“I’m gonna take you with me,” he says as if he had planned this all along, “we just gotta pop out to the store and back- get some more water, some tissues, all that fun stuff. Okay?”

Jason relaxes, though he doesn’t let go of Dick. “Okay,” he half-whispers. “Just- just don’t leave me.”

“I promise.”

 Rather predictably, things are not going well.

Dick’s eyes are sore and gritty, and he can’t quite tell if his hands are shaking or not. He has Jason tucked under his arm in an attempt to keep him warm and stop him from tipping over- easier said than done on the ice-laced paths.

It’s dark out now, and the streetlights in this part of town are few and far between. Jason’s weighty breaths seem to echo in the mostly empty streets- they’re gonna start attracting attention soon.

“Dick,” mumbles Jason all of a sudden, “we nearly there yet?”

No. No they are not. All the nearest stores are closed and they’re starting to get uncomfortably far from home.

“Uh-huh,” whispers Dick, “just another few minutes, okay?”

“’kay.”

Jason lets out a tremendous sniff then, and Dick rubs his arm absently.

It’s way colder than Dick thought it would be- every breath in is sharp, every breath out creates a thick plume of condensation.

Dick isn’t good with cold- his head hurts, his chest aches, and all he wants to do is go to sleep for a while. When it’s really, really, cold, his nose bleeds.

“’m tired.”

“Me too, lil’ wing. Nearly there.”

“Can we sit down? Just for a second?”

Jason sounds exhausted.

Dick glances around carefully- no unsavoury characters too close by, though they’d be better off stepping in out of view.

“Yeah- we’ll sit down just around the corner for a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

The two of them make their ungainly way around the corner- off the main street and into a more secluded area.

There’s a deep, surprisingly unoccupied, doorway here- Dick tucks his little brother into the corner in an attempt to block some of the cold out. He pulls off his jacket and gives it to Jason as a blanket.

Jason leans his head on Dick’s shoulder and lets out slow, heavy, breaths.

Dick looks up at the artificially clouded, orange-tinted sky and misses the stars for the umpteenth time.

Has Jason ever seen the stars?

Dick’s eyes are very, very, tired.

Don’t you dare fall asleep, Grayson.

There’s a song playing from a building nearby- words muffled, melody barely audible. A slow, soft, sad song.

Dick breathes in deep, lets it out slowly.

He watches his breath cloud and float up, up, up, until he can’t see it anymore.

“Dick?”, asks Jason drowsily.

“Yeah?”, Dick whispers back, still staring up at the sky.

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“Me neither, Jay. ‘nother minute?”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet again, Dick knowing full well that they need to get up and keep moving but not quite able to do anything with that knowledge just yet.

Something begins to drift down through the orange-haze; Dick watches it distantly, rubs tiredly at his runny nose.

A feathery speck of snow falls softly to the ground before them.

Then another.

Then another.

Shit.

It’s not dry enough for the snow to lodge, but that won’t make their unfinished journey any less miserable.

Then there’s a thump from above- too heavy and solid to be anything other than a person.

Then another thump, and another.

Double shit.

 Damian is having a reasonably good evening, all things considered.

Is it colder than anyone would like? Yes, yes it is.

Did Kent call earlier like he said he would? No, no he did not.

But Damian isn’t letting any of that bother him- there’s crime to fight, justice to uphold, etcetera, etcetera.

Besides, he’s rather enjoying knocking the stuffing out of the would-be jewel thief before him.

Or at least, he would be, if the degenerate would ever show some consideration and stop running away.

Coward.

(Damian’s evening is, perhaps, not going as well as he is trying to convince himself it is.)

The thief clears the gap between two buildings with surprising ease, seeing as he has no grapple gun to support him.

Damian tails him still, grip tight on the non-lethal staff Father had insisted on.

They had argued about it (again) only earlier that evening, actually.

It’s understandable that Father would prefer that Drake abstain from lethal force- Drake hasn’t been trained in the art of death from birth, after all. Drake can barely be trusted to tell one end of a blade from the other.

But Damian is a master- the best of his generation, it had always been whispered. Damian can be trusted to kill quickly and efficiently- or slowly and painfully, as required.

Damian is more than capable of-

The thief swerves suddenly and Damian copies- but the rooftop is covered with a thin layer of treacherous frost and Damian perhaps hadn’t been paying quite as much attention to his surroundings as he should have been- what would Grandfather say?

Damian stumbles, temporarily drops to one knee, before regaining his balance.

It’s a tiny slip- a microscopic mistake in the grand scheme of things- but it’s enough.

America has made him soft.

The thief is further ahead than he should be- he hops down to the next building, and then down again into a dingy alleyway.

Damian continues his pursuit- trying his best to force down the little bubble of desperation- he must catch up in time- he can’t disappoint Father- he can’t.

Damian drops into the alleyway, head automatically snapping to the left to see the thief racing away. They’re on better terrain now- Damian can catch up. He can.

It’s then that he hears it; a quiet sniff.

Almost against his will, Damian turns his head away from the criminal’s retreating figure.

There are two people huddled together in the doorway next to him.

Two very small people watching him with wide, frightened, eyes.

Children- younger than Drake- tiny and alone and shaking with fear, cold, or both.

Instinctively, Damian reaches out to them and they flinch.

They’re afraid of him.

To the best of his knowledge, Damian has never frightened children before. The other children in the League might have been wary of him, but they were never afraid. Drake might have been uneasy when they first met, but soon irritation outweighed all other emotion.

But now one child is clearly trying to shield the other from him- as if Damian is likely to snap and rage.

As if Damian is likely to hurt them.

Something about this does not sit well with Damian- perhaps it’s the novelty of the situation, perhaps it’s the not-very-good day he’s been having, perhaps it’s Father’s philosophy winding around the recesses of his mind.

He remembers, very suddenly, that there are two parts to the Batman’s mission statement, though Damian does tend to only consider the first half.

To punish the guilty and protect the innocent.

Appearances can be deceptive, and youth is no indicator of nature, but Damian is pretty sure that it is the innocent who are staring up at him in mute terror.

He glances after the jewel thief- still visible at the mouth of the alley. If he ran now, he could probably catch up.

But there are two children alone in Gotham on a cold night who are absolutely terrified of him and seem rather lacking in the resources department.

Damian takes in how underdressed the older child is- his full-body shivers and bloody nose. The other child is bundled up and mostly hidden from view but from what little Damian can see, he doesn’t seem all that healthy.

It’s snowing.

Damian looks after the criminal- the guilty who must be punished- and comes to a decision.

He sheathes his staff, drops his shoulders, and looks down at the children, trying very hard to radiate non-threatening energy.

He isn’t sure if it’s working.

“What are you doing out here?”, Damian asks, trying to imitate the soft voice that Father sometimes uses when Damian is…uneasy.

The older child swipes at his nose, doesn’t seem to notice the blood left on his hand.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, still leaning away from Damian.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Damian counters, still trying to do the Voice. “It looks like you’re planning on staying there for a while, and not by choice either.”

The boy looks at him for a long moment, before admitting quietly, “Maybe.”

Damian mentally pats himself on the back for this minor victory.

Protect the innocent.

“Do you- “, Damian starts, but he is interrupted by the second child breaking his silence to let out an extremely unpleasant-sounding, wet, hacking, cough.

The first child turns away from Damian immediately to rub his brother’s back.

When the fit subsides about two minutes later, Damian catches the tiny whisper of “You okay, Jaybird?”, and the even tinier, breathless, “Yeah.”

“You need to see a doctor,” says Damian matter-of-factly.

“I know,” mutters the older boy, not looking at Damian.

“I know where to find a clinic with a fantastic doctor,” Damian offers, surprising himself with the realisation that he is willing to take these two all the way over to Dr Hopkins’ if necessary.

“We can’t- “, the boy starts, conflict clearly playing out on his face. Then his expressions hardens. “We don’t need your charity.”

Damian aches with the urge to point out that they very clearly need someone’s charity, but resists. That sort of barb rarely goes over well with Drake, never mind two virtual strangers.

He sighs. “I know you don’t.”

They’re in a stalemate then- Damian (for reasons which not even he entirely understands) unwilling to leave them as he found them, and neither of the two boys willing to accept his help.

Damian crouches down in a bid to make himself less intimidating, though both boys watch him cautiously. The older one tightens his grip on his brother.

“Do you know who I am?”, Damian asks quietly.

The children stare at him for a moment, eyes skittering all over his uniform and hopefully lingering on the bat symbol.

“You work with Batman,” whispers the smaller boy hoarsely.

Damian nods. “I do. And what does Batman do?”

“Fight crime?”, offers the sick child.

“And?”

The boy with the bloody nose sighs. “And help people who need it. Which we don’t,” he hastens to add.

Damian looks at them levelly and then repeats something that Pennyworth has told him quietly time after time, though Damian has never truly listened to the words until now.

“Everyone needs help sometimes, and everyone is allowed to get help.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, both children watching him with wide, considering, eyes.

“We can’t pay the doctor,” says the older boy, slouching.

“She won’t charge you.”

“You sure?”, whispers the sick one, squinting at Damian.

He nods, which seems to be enough for the sick boy.

“Le’ss go, Dick.”

The newly identified Dick looks at his brother again. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons,” mutters Dick, before sighing. “Alright then, let’s go get our organs stolen.”

“She won’t take your organs,” reassures Damian.

“That’s what they all say.”

Dick stands up stiffly and rubs at his nose again. He notices the blood this time, but merely frowns at his hand in response.

“What happened?”, Damian asks, though Dick only shrugs before pulling on the coat previously wrapped around his little brother.

There’s a bit of difficulty then, as the younger boy very shakily stands up and nearly falls over, though Dick manages to save him and prop him upright under his arm.

Standing up now, it’s clear that the boys can’t be any older than about eleven and neither of them looks like he has regular meals.

“Lead ahead,” says Dick.

“Lead on,” corrects his brother tiredly. “’r go ahead.”

Dick shrugs again.

Damian starts walking, though he’s only made it a few feet before realising that the boys are still behind him and only slowly shuffling forward.

They both look exhausted, and whilst Dick may be in better shape than his brother, he’s still trembling ever so slightly and walking stiffly.

Damian tilts his head for a moment, considering.

Then he stands on Dick’s free side- he thinks he knows better than to go near Dick’s younger brother given the sharp look Dick keeps giving him- and props him under his arm.

“Let’s go then,” says Damian, pretending not to see the strange looks he is being given.

Neither boy says anything in response but the three of them begin to make their achingly slow way forward, ungainly as one might expect such a convoy to be.

Damian can feel how horrifyingly cold Dick is under his arm and doesn’t even want to consider how cold his brother probably is.

He twists his cape around with his free hand and drapes it around the other two’s shoulders without breaking stride.

“Thanks,” mumbles Dick.

His brother makes a hoarse noise that may or may not also be a thank you.

“You’re welcome,” says Damian uncomfortably.

People do not often thank him.

(Damian wonders, briefly, if the children would have been willing to trust him at all if he had been carrying a more deadly weapon and doesn’t like how the answer makes him feel.)

They continue to walk in silence.

It’s going to be a long night.

 Many, many, hours later Damian is standing at his father’s side in the Batcave, as his father types away on the computer.

Drake is somewhere nearby, polishing something- Damian can hear his breathing.

Pennyworth is on Father’s other side, dutifully copying down a wall of text from a smaller screen- Damian can’t hear his breathing.

“The thief escaped,” Father says. It is and isn’t a question.

Damian nods, though adds, “I believe he will strike again in the financial district sometime in the next two weeks,” by way of a meagre apology.

“You last reported in from Leslie’s clinic.”

“Yes.”

There is a long pause, as Damian tries to compose his thoughts and Father waits- ever patient.

“I had to protect the innocent,” he says eventually.

Father stops his typing and Drake stops pretending to be doing whatever it is that he’s been doing.

“Oh?”, asks Father, the closest Damian has ever gotten to a ‘go on’ from him.

“There were two children,” says Damian, not looking at his Father. “They needed medical attention, amongst other things. I found them as I pursued the thief and- “

“And you chose to protect the innocent rather than punish the guilty,” Father finishes.

Damian nods. “I did.”

Father actually turns his head to look at him, which means that Damian’s gaze is drawn- magnetised- to his.

“I’m proud of you,” Father says, voice warm and soft.

There is a lump in Damian’s throat all of a sudden.

He nods and chokes out, “Thank you.”

They stay like that a moment, Father’s calm blue eyes on his own teary green.

And then Father says, “Jon Kent called whilst you were out.”

Damian finally looks away from his father. “Oh?”

“He wanted to ask you about your chemistry project.”

Damian clicks his tongue. “I told him I’d tell him tomorrow.”

“Best go to bed then- it’s been a long day.”

Damian nods again. “Goodnight Father. Goodnight Pennyworth.”

He pauses for a very long moment, before eventually adding, “Goodnight, Drake.”

Drake says from somewhere that may or may not be in the rafters, “Goodnight Damian,” and then Damian goes to bed.

Damian falls asleep and dreams of softly falling snow and orange-tinted skies and part of an old, slow, song.

Softly, softly turn the key And open up my heart.

[phanwritings]

The Best Part Of Being Sick

Tittle: The Best Part Of Being Sick

Word Count: 1000

Summary: Being sick sucks.

Warnings/Triggers: Literally just fluff, although food mention.

A/N: I'm sick.

Phil hated being sick. And he especially hated being the type of sick where you felt horrible but you weren't sick enough to get out of things. He hated how he would have an always constant headache and a sore throat. His voice would sound two times deeper than normal, which was kind of embarrassing. All in all, there were no perks to being sick.

Phil was the type of person that had to be doing something productive almost all the time - whether that be working on his newest video or cleaning or enjoying one of his favorite hobbies. When he was sick he had to rest - like properly rest. That wasn't something that he did easily. Dan would usually try to force him into a bed or the couch and force fed him soup. While he could take the treatment for a day or so, after that it was incredibly boring and he just wanted it to be over with. That often ended up with him trying to desperately hide how sick he was from Dan and act as if he was fine. When Phil woke up that morning he knew that it would end up turning into one of those days. He could already feel how congested his nose was and the itchiness of his eyes. He sighed and preceded to get out of bed, determined to hide the cold from Dan.

Speaking of Dan, he wasn't in bed. Phil often woke up before Dan, so that was weird. He turned his phone on, his eyes widening when he noticed the time. It was 10:50 am, nearly two hours after he usually wakes up. No wonder Dan beat him at waking up. It was going to be harder to hide his illness now - he doesn't sleep in often.

Phil officially got up, stretching and sliding his feet into his slippers. He located his glasses on the nightstand and put them on his face, nearly poking himself in the eye. Yep, he was definitely sick.

He walked out of his and Dan's room, finding Dan in the kitchen. Phil could hear him talking to himself and humming under his breath. Phil watched silently with a smile on his face. He eventually grew tired of just watching and wanted to actually touch Dan in some way, so he started walking into the kitchen, taking advantage of the fact that Dan couldn't see him. Phil ended up behind Dan, his arms coming to wrap around his waist. Dan hummed and leaned into his embrace. Phil smiled and rested his head in the crook of Dan's neck, sighing happily.

"Glad to see you're finally awake, sleepy-head," Dan teased. "I was actually making you breakfast in bed so I could wake you up without you hating me."

"You're sweet," Phil said. "But here I am - awake - and ready to eat food with my wonderful husband that I love very much."

Dan scrunched up his nose. "You're gross." Phil laughed and pecked Dan on the cheek, squishing the little bit of tummy that Dan had, which was one of Phil's favorite parts of Dan.

"At least I'm not so gross that I stalk my favorite YouTuber until he notices me and then continues to Skype and text him every single day for months." Phil retorts, grabbing two plates for the two of them as Dan brings the brunch food to their table.

"I thought we agreed to never bring that up!" Dan shouted from across the hall. Phil laughed, sniffling slightly as he carried glasses of orange juice and the plates to the table.

"We will continue to bring it up. And one day when we have kids I will sit each and every one of them down and tell the story of how you stalked me." Dan hid his hands in his face as Phil laughed.

"I don't know why I married you, you're so mean to me." Dan complained warmly.

"It's clearly because you are obsessed with me, made obvious by the fact that you stalked me. You tricked me into saying yes when you proposed on my birthday."

"You're crazy." Dan said, laughing. Phil shrugged, coughing. Uh oh. Dan's eyes narrowed in on him and Phil knew his secret was out. Dan sighed. "You're sick, aren't you?" Phil nodded. "Breakfast and then I am taking care of you."

"Fair enough." Phil agreed.

The meal passed well enough. They talked about their creative plans for their next videos and when they should get together with their friends.

"Alright, time for me to take care of you. " Dan said, clearing the dishes.

"Dan, I'm fine. Seriously." Phil stood up, intending to help Dan clean up. Dan instead put a hand up to his forehead, shaking his head. "You're burning up like Mercury."

"You're a space nerd," Phil said in a sing-song voice. Dan just rolled his eyes while smiling.  "I'll go lay down on the couch."

"Good, I know you never take care of yourself when you're sick." Dan said. Phil walked over to the couch and laid down, checking his twitter notifications while Dan washed the dishes. Dan appeared in the doorway, his arms crossed and hip resting on the frame. "Now I get to take care of you."

"Oh, how will I live," Phil said sarcastically. Dan clambered onto the couch with him, climbing in-between Phil's legs, his head resting on his chest. "You're my favorite part of being sick."

"I'm making soup later," Dan said sleepily. Phil groaned, Dan laughing at his response. "Shut up, you know you love it."

"Maybe you're right." Phil admitted.