Second Conchords fic
Title: Sick
Fandom: FOTC
Rating: G
Warnings: Preslash and cuddling
Disclaimer: They're not mine and never will be
Summary: Bret and Jemaine are under the weather so Murray brings them a movie to watch
Author's Note: Writing this almost killed me. I could only manage two about hundred words at a time and I got completely stuck around the one thousand word mark. This is my first time writing Murray so I hope that he turned out OK. I have a vague notion to expand this into a two-part series if there is any interest. As always is something is wrong (spelling, grammar or anything that just rubs you the wrong way in the writing in general) please let me know. It's the only way I'll learn :)
Additionally it is not my intention to slag off the film the guy's are watching. I just feel that they probably feel the same way towards it as I to towards the film Michael Collins, i.e. that it's alright but there's only so many times you can watch a film patriotically.
'>
The sound of Murray Hewitt banging through the apartment was something of a trial in the best of times, but now Jemaine would have said something very cutting if only his head wasn't hurting so much.
"Alright guys, I'm back from the grocery store. You know, the eh supermarket?"
Yep, deep sarcasm was what this situation needed but he simply couldn't find the energy to think of something suitably devastating. Besides, Murray had gone out for them on his own lunchbreak. He was really quite nice in his own bumbling, geography teacher way.
Bret emerged from the bedroom they shared with his blanket wrapped around him like some kind of toga-poncho combo. He looked as bad as Jemaine felt, like a peruvian/roman ghost with his papery skin and the bruise-like shadows under his eyes. Bret, at least could pull off the gaunt invalid look though. Jemaine felt self-consciously like a wheezing sweat streaked animal next to him.
"Hi, Murray," said Bret weakly and collapsed on the couch, tucking his togo-poncho closer around himself.
"Right," Murray enthusiastically rubbed his hands together, "First off, I'd just like to formally excuse you from yesterday's meeting"
"Thanks, Murray," they chorused dutifully. There was a band meeting yesterday?
"Well, I've gotten you some soup. In a carton! Imagine that! What will they think of next? Baked beans in bottles? Anyway, there wasn't any chicken, so I got one carrot and corriander and one tomato. You can sort that out among yourselves."
Jemaine nodded dully and Bret received the brown paper bag reverently and clutched it to his chest.
"There's also lots of bottled water in there so you can get your fluids. And if you've drunken it all by tomorrow, I'll see about getting you some lemonade."
Honestly, they weren't children. Huh. Why couldn't they just have lemonade now?
"I'll just heat up the soup for you," said Murray, gingerly extracting the bag from Bret's arms, "And you should drink some of your water," he called over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
Jemaine, slumped down next to his bandmate on the couch and reached for the abandoned paper bag. At the same moment Bret reached for the bag and their feverish hands brushed. Jemaine snatched his hand back quickly (or as quickly as his sluggish body would allow him. Everything he did felt laboured and ineffective like he was running with his legs underwater).
"Sorry," Bret rasped in a voice that hadn't been used much in the past 36 hours. He sounded like he was consoling a grieving parent whose child had died of leukemia rather than apologising for brushing against someone.
"S'okay," Jemaine muttered back. His throat felt like it had been sandpapered and he didn't much care to think what he must sound like. He was not to know that Bret was thinking quietly to himself that Jemaine's deep growly voice sounded like a bit like Barry White.
Shaking this thought away, Bret passed a large bottle to Jemaine and took one himself. They sat taking long gulps of the cool liquid waiting for Murray to return, enjoying the still air and the heat between their bodies.
"Oh guys, you should have called me for glasses!" Murray's plaintive cry shook them out of their respective daydreams. Bret jumped and sloshed water down his tee shirt and shivered at the cold water against his hot skin.
"Alright don't panic, I have an emergency felt tip pen with me. I'll write your names on the bottles so you don't get them mixed up and get each other's germs," Murray produced a pen from his shirt pocket and carefully wrote on the curved surface of the bottles. The "t" at the end of "Bret" sloped off dangerously when the plastic bent inwards and the pen skidded.
"Right, here's the soup. It's quite hot so be careful and don't burn your lip, Jemaine"
"What about me, Murray?" asked Bret
"Well Jemaine's lips are at greater risk. The surface area of skin on his mouth is emormous! Mel showed me a photo-"
"Yes, thank you, Murray," said Jemaine quickly. And then burnt his lip when he sipped his soup too fast.
Having then administerd the mugs of soup, Murray Nightingale bustled off to the kitchen to get a tea towel for Bret's shirt.
Jemaine sucked his burnt lip while Bret noisily slurped his soup.
"Can you eat your soup more quietly?" snapped Jemaine
"I'm sorry," replied Bret, looking like a kicked puppy and guility resumed his soup-eating. It was only marginally quieter but Jemaine dropped the subject.
Murray reemerged from the kitchen with the tea towel and gently swiped at Bret's shirt before Bret took it embarrassedly and continued drying himself. Murray peered at them anxiously. He didn't want to leave them alone but matters of international importance were calling him back to work. And tech support was back this week.
"Ok guys, I'll be back in the morning to see how you're getting on. Drink your water, take your medicine and think healing thoughts. Mind over body and...that," Murray ended weakly.
"Oh and I almost forgot about the film!" Bret and Jemaine perked up a bit at that, "It's a fantasy and in my opinion it's one of the best ones ever made-"
"Is it Labyrinth?" asked Bret. 1986 David Bowie and goblins!
"Is is the Princess Bride?" asked Jemaine. True love...and and fighting and killing and stuff!
"-in New Zealand."
"Sorry, Murray what?" Bret asked confused
"It's Lord of the Rings again isn't it?" asked Jemaine, resignedly
"Yes Jemaine you guessed it. One of the best fantasy films made in New Zealand," Murray beamed at them expectantly.
"Thank you Murray," Bret sighed. Lord of the Rings was a good film but, there were only so many times you could watch a fim patriotically.
"I'll start it for you so you don't have to get up," their ever helpful manager informed them
"It's ok Murray we can do it," said Jemaine hopefully
"Nonsense. That's what I'm here for. Someone needs to take care of you two," replied Murray, quashing any hopes of them just pretending they'd watched it tomorrow.
Murray busied himself with the dvd player while Jemaine rebelliously drank from Bret's water bottle behind his back. Murray left the appartment during the FBI warning, leaving the two band memebers alone.
"I don't think I can get up to turn it off," Bret said matter of factly
"Neither can I."
As Cate Blanchett's voice reading the exposition filled the room, Bret adjusted his blanket again.
"Do you want some blanket?" he asked cordially
"Yeah alright." Jemaine didn't really want under the blanket but he felt a bit guilty for using Bret's water and didn't want to hurt his feelings. Bret draped it around his friend and tucked it against him.
"Thanks," said Jemaine uncomfortably. Bret shifted nearer to him until their legs were touching. While Jemaine was feverish, Bret was chilled and he was drawn to his friend's warmth like a magnet to a fridge. Or to a metal stove seeing as fridges were cold.
They sat like that, shifting closer and closer together, for the duration of Hobbiton being cute until by the time Gandalf was being scarey, Bret was almost in Jemaine's lap.
As Ian McKellan boomed (considerable louder than Murray had in the music video for "Stefan") at Ian Holme, Bret sqeaked and hid his head in the crook of his friend's shoulder. Jemaine awkwardly petted his shoulder while murmering in what he hoped was a soothing way. Then it was back to Hobbiton cosy-wosyness and Gandalf was just an old bloke in a dress with a beard again. But Bret didn't move his head.
"Do you think Sam is gay for Frodo?" Jemaine asked idly while carding through Bret's hair with his fingers.
"What?" Bret turned his red rimmed eyes towards him
"Sam. He's always with him and looking after him. I think he fancies him a little bit" Jemaine replied decisively, continuing his gentle scalp massage.
"Maybe. Frodo likes Sam anyway" said Bret resting contentedly against Jemaine's broad, warm body.
"Really. I think it's more one sided," Jemaine's hands abruptly left Bret's head
"No, Frodo says he loves Sam all the time. It's not his fault Sam doesn't listen to him"
"When did Frodo say that?" asked Jemaine, feeling strangely irritable for some reason.
"He always tells Sam he needs him and he's glad he's there," said Bret, who was resolutely Not Pouting. Grown men did not pout over minor disagreements with their mates concering fictional gay realtionships.
"That's not the same thing" muttered Jemaine
"It is if your listening properly. You have to read between the lines." Jemaine satisfied himself with a cynical 'hmmph' and allowed his hand to wander back towards Bret's neglected head.
Fandom: FOTC
Rating: G
Warnings: Preslash and cuddling
Disclaimer: They're not mine and never will be
Summary: Bret and Jemaine are under the weather so Murray brings them a movie to watch
Author's Note: Writing this almost killed me. I could only manage two about hundred words at a time and I got completely stuck around the one thousand word mark. This is my first time writing Murray so I hope that he turned out OK. I have a vague notion to expand this into a two-part series if there is any interest. As always is something is wrong (spelling, grammar or anything that just rubs you the wrong way in the writing in general) please let me know. It's the only way I'll learn :)
Additionally it is not my intention to slag off the film the guy's are watching. I just feel that they probably feel the same way towards it as I to towards the film Michael Collins, i.e. that it's alright but there's only so many times you can watch a film patriotically.
'>
The sound of Murray Hewitt banging through the apartment was something of a trial in the best of times, but now Jemaine would have said something very cutting if only his head wasn't hurting so much.
"Alright guys, I'm back from the grocery store. You know, the eh supermarket?"
Yep, deep sarcasm was what this situation needed but he simply couldn't find the energy to think of something suitably devastating. Besides, Murray had gone out for them on his own lunchbreak. He was really quite nice in his own bumbling, geography teacher way.
Bret emerged from the bedroom they shared with his blanket wrapped around him like some kind of toga-poncho combo. He looked as bad as Jemaine felt, like a peruvian/roman ghost with his papery skin and the bruise-like shadows under his eyes. Bret, at least could pull off the gaunt invalid look though. Jemaine felt self-consciously like a wheezing sweat streaked animal next to him.
"Hi, Murray," said Bret weakly and collapsed on the couch, tucking his togo-poncho closer around himself.
"Right," Murray enthusiastically rubbed his hands together, "First off, I'd just like to formally excuse you from yesterday's meeting"
"Thanks, Murray," they chorused dutifully. There was a band meeting yesterday?
"Well, I've gotten you some soup. In a carton! Imagine that! What will they think of next? Baked beans in bottles? Anyway, there wasn't any chicken, so I got one carrot and corriander and one tomato. You can sort that out among yourselves."
Jemaine nodded dully and Bret received the brown paper bag reverently and clutched it to his chest.
"There's also lots of bottled water in there so you can get your fluids. And if you've drunken it all by tomorrow, I'll see about getting you some lemonade."
Honestly, they weren't children. Huh. Why couldn't they just have lemonade now?
"I'll just heat up the soup for you," said Murray, gingerly extracting the bag from Bret's arms, "And you should drink some of your water," he called over his shoulder on the way to the kitchen.
Jemaine, slumped down next to his bandmate on the couch and reached for the abandoned paper bag. At the same moment Bret reached for the bag and their feverish hands brushed. Jemaine snatched his hand back quickly (or as quickly as his sluggish body would allow him. Everything he did felt laboured and ineffective like he was running with his legs underwater).
"Sorry," Bret rasped in a voice that hadn't been used much in the past 36 hours. He sounded like he was consoling a grieving parent whose child had died of leukemia rather than apologising for brushing against someone.
"S'okay," Jemaine muttered back. His throat felt like it had been sandpapered and he didn't much care to think what he must sound like. He was not to know that Bret was thinking quietly to himself that Jemaine's deep growly voice sounded like a bit like Barry White.
Shaking this thought away, Bret passed a large bottle to Jemaine and took one himself. They sat taking long gulps of the cool liquid waiting for Murray to return, enjoying the still air and the heat between their bodies.
"Oh guys, you should have called me for glasses!" Murray's plaintive cry shook them out of their respective daydreams. Bret jumped and sloshed water down his tee shirt and shivered at the cold water against his hot skin.
"Alright don't panic, I have an emergency felt tip pen with me. I'll write your names on the bottles so you don't get them mixed up and get each other's germs," Murray produced a pen from his shirt pocket and carefully wrote on the curved surface of the bottles. The "t" at the end of "Bret" sloped off dangerously when the plastic bent inwards and the pen skidded.
"Right, here's the soup. It's quite hot so be careful and don't burn your lip, Jemaine"
"What about me, Murray?" asked Bret
"Well Jemaine's lips are at greater risk. The surface area of skin on his mouth is emormous! Mel showed me a photo-"
"Yes, thank you, Murray," said Jemaine quickly. And then burnt his lip when he sipped his soup too fast.
Having then administerd the mugs of soup, Murray Nightingale bustled off to the kitchen to get a tea towel for Bret's shirt.
Jemaine sucked his burnt lip while Bret noisily slurped his soup.
"Can you eat your soup more quietly?" snapped Jemaine
"I'm sorry," replied Bret, looking like a kicked puppy and guility resumed his soup-eating. It was only marginally quieter but Jemaine dropped the subject.
Murray reemerged from the kitchen with the tea towel and gently swiped at Bret's shirt before Bret took it embarrassedly and continued drying himself. Murray peered at them anxiously. He didn't want to leave them alone but matters of international importance were calling him back to work. And tech support was back this week.
"Ok guys, I'll be back in the morning to see how you're getting on. Drink your water, take your medicine and think healing thoughts. Mind over body and...that," Murray ended weakly.
"Oh and I almost forgot about the film!" Bret and Jemaine perked up a bit at that, "It's a fantasy and in my opinion it's one of the best ones ever made-"
"Is it Labyrinth?" asked Bret. 1986 David Bowie and goblins!
"Is is the Princess Bride?" asked Jemaine. True love...and and fighting and killing and stuff!
"-in New Zealand."
"Sorry, Murray what?" Bret asked confused
"It's Lord of the Rings again isn't it?" asked Jemaine, resignedly
"Yes Jemaine you guessed it. One of the best fantasy films made in New Zealand," Murray beamed at them expectantly.
"Thank you Murray," Bret sighed. Lord of the Rings was a good film but, there were only so many times you could watch a fim patriotically.
"I'll start it for you so you don't have to get up," their ever helpful manager informed them
"It's ok Murray we can do it," said Jemaine hopefully
"Nonsense. That's what I'm here for. Someone needs to take care of you two," replied Murray, quashing any hopes of them just pretending they'd watched it tomorrow.
Murray busied himself with the dvd player while Jemaine rebelliously drank from Bret's water bottle behind his back. Murray left the appartment during the FBI warning, leaving the two band memebers alone.
"I don't think I can get up to turn it off," Bret said matter of factly
"Neither can I."
As Cate Blanchett's voice reading the exposition filled the room, Bret adjusted his blanket again.
"Do you want some blanket?" he asked cordially
"Yeah alright." Jemaine didn't really want under the blanket but he felt a bit guilty for using Bret's water and didn't want to hurt his feelings. Bret draped it around his friend and tucked it against him.
"Thanks," said Jemaine uncomfortably. Bret shifted nearer to him until their legs were touching. While Jemaine was feverish, Bret was chilled and he was drawn to his friend's warmth like a magnet to a fridge. Or to a metal stove seeing as fridges were cold.
They sat like that, shifting closer and closer together, for the duration of Hobbiton being cute until by the time Gandalf was being scarey, Bret was almost in Jemaine's lap.
As Ian McKellan boomed (considerable louder than Murray had in the music video for "Stefan") at Ian Holme, Bret sqeaked and hid his head in the crook of his friend's shoulder. Jemaine awkwardly petted his shoulder while murmering in what he hoped was a soothing way. Then it was back to Hobbiton cosy-wosyness and Gandalf was just an old bloke in a dress with a beard again. But Bret didn't move his head.
"Do you think Sam is gay for Frodo?" Jemaine asked idly while carding through Bret's hair with his fingers.
"What?" Bret turned his red rimmed eyes towards him
"Sam. He's always with him and looking after him. I think he fancies him a little bit" Jemaine replied decisively, continuing his gentle scalp massage.
"Maybe. Frodo likes Sam anyway" said Bret resting contentedly against Jemaine's broad, warm body.
"Really. I think it's more one sided," Jemaine's hands abruptly left Bret's head
"No, Frodo says he loves Sam all the time. It's not his fault Sam doesn't listen to him"
"When did Frodo say that?" asked Jemaine, feeling strangely irritable for some reason.
"He always tells Sam he needs him and he's glad he's there," said Bret, who was resolutely Not Pouting. Grown men did not pout over minor disagreements with their mates concering fictional gay realtionships.
"That's not the same thing" muttered Jemaine
"It is if your listening properly. You have to read between the lines." Jemaine satisfied himself with a cynical 'hmmph' and allowed his hand to wander back towards Bret's neglected head.