Fic: Leave Me Alone!

[nugatorytm]

Pardon me while I sing like Pickles for a moment:

"I did it! I did it! I finally f~riff~in' did it! I finally finished this fic!"

*ahem*

Okay, this is supposed to be gift fic for delaese, when she was feeling poorly with the bad sinuses and all. Her sinuses are probably better by now, but she just hurt herself so I guess this can still be feel better fic, I suppose.

I do apologize for this being so late, but I've been a total narcoleptic at the computer lately. Having said that, here we go:

Title: Leave Me Alone!
Author: NugatoryTm
Rating: Ehh, PG-13?
Characters: Pickles, Toki, and cameos by the rest of the guys.
Warnings: A couple of F-bombs and a little innuendo, but nothing worse than that.
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. If they did, I'd give you lots of episodes.
Summary: Pickles is sick, and just wants to be left alone. Like that's gonna happen.

Cross-posted to sausagefestival



Leave Me Alone!
by NugatoryTm

Despite the fact that Pickles' body could be labeled a medical miracle due to the fact that he was fairly immune to just about any substance put into his body, usually voluntarily, Pickles did have a weak spot: his lungs. Bouts of childhood asthma left his lungs susceptable to viruses and infections, though he rarely caught them, the sheer amount of alcohol in his system normally killed any invaders before they had a chance to multiply. But every once in a blue moon, an extremely hardy strain would work its way in and settle into his lungs, making Pickles miserable for at least a week or so. Of course, his super-immunity was a double-edged sword, meaning that any medicine he could take to allieve his symptoms would also be rendered ineffective. His options severely limited, the drummer relied on tried-and-true home remedies to make himself feel better.

Currently abed with his latest bout of acute bronchitus, Pickles drained his cup of ginger tea and settled down under the covers for some well-needed rest. Though he was gregarious by nature, when Pickles took ill he turned anti-social and reclusive, often to the point of isolating himself in his room for the entire duration of his illness. It was just as well; trying to hang out with a sick and cranky Pickles was not high on anyone's list of priorities.

So it came as somewhat of a suprise when there was a knock at the bedroom door. More of a pounding, actually, which meant that Nathan was outside. Well, whatever Nathan wanted could wait until later. "Go awey!" Pickles yelled, followed immediately by a coughing fit.

The door opened a second after the coughs had died down, Nathan's ebon-framed head cautiously peeking around the edge of the door. "Hey. Hey, Pickles, are you contagious?"

"Why doncha come in n' find out?" Pickles rasped through the rattle in his chest.

"Pass. Skwisgaar's busy entertaining one of his old ladies, so I came over to see if you were well enough to work on the album. But I guess you're not." Nathan fidgeted in the doorway for a moment, clearly at a loss. "Well, fuck. I guess I'll go bug Charles for a while. Or something." He reached for the knob, but the sound of his name amidst a coughing jag gave him pause.

When he could finally breathe again, Pickles managed to wheeze, "Know any Yannemango cures fer lung ailments?"

"Other than literally cutting your lungs out, no." There was a second's pause as Nathan considered something, then, "Hold on, let me talk to Skwisgaar a minute." The frontman closed the door behind him as he left.

Pickles sat there and wondered what the heck Skwisgaar had to do with Yannemango medicine when not five minutes later, the man himself walked into Pickles' room, naked save for a rumpled sheet clasped around his waist. That really wasn't too surprising, Skwisgaar's lack of modesty clearly came from the uninhibited lifestyle he led. What shocked Pickles, however, was the elderly woman who came waltzing in after him, clad in a sexy, nearly there teddy trimmed with marabou fur. The matching bedroom shoes showed off her legs to a high degree, including the varicose veins running up and down her thighs like forked lightning. Pickles choked at the sight and tried to cough up a phlegm ball that wouldn't budge from his throat.

Moving forward toward the bed as parts of the sheet trailed behind him like a bridal train, Skwisgaar appraised the situation. "Oh, ja, Agsnus, Pickle gots de terribles cough. What you t'inks?"

"Well, the ginger tea he's drinking is a step in the right direction, but it sounds to me like he needs something a little stronger to go with it." The older woman thought for a moment. "My Aunt Adelaide swore by mustard plasters when Uncle Henry was sick, perhaps that might help."

Mustard plasters! Pickles wanted to hit himself upside the head for having forgotten that his own grandmother used to put mustard plasters on him when he was little. Well, that's what a life soaked in alcohol will do to one's memory. "Do ya know how ta make one?" he asked.

Agnus shook her head apologetically. "I've never had to, unfortunately, and my aunt has passed on and took the recipe with her. I'm sorry, dear." As a token gesture of comfort, she tucked the blankets up to the drummer's chin before touching Skwisgaar on the arm on her way to the door. "Let's leave him to his rest, Skwisgaar dear."

The Swede nodded, following her out. "Sleeps well, Pickle," he said as he closed the door.

Pickles snuggled down into the blanket, grinning to himself. When it came down to it, deep down the band members really did care for each other, though none of them would ever admit it, with the possible exception of Toki. It was nice to know that his fucked-up, dysfunctional family was there when he needed them.

He was almost asleep when there came another knock upon the door, softer this time. How in the hell was he supposed to get better when no one would leave him alone long enough to get any rest? "Whet??!" he yelled, and immediately regretted it as it set off yet another wave of coughing.

This time it was Charles at the door. "Nathan tells me that you're feeling a bit, ah, under the weather," he said as he came in. "That's quite a nasty cough you have there, Pickles. Bronchitis acting up again?" Pickles nodded, thankful that he didn't have to answer verbally. "You do realize," Charles went on, "that if you stopped smoking, your symptoms would be less severe." Pickles' answer to that came in the form of his middle finger being raised high in the air. Charles grinned at the gesture. "Well, for the record, I tried. Do you need anything? Food? Drink? Last Will and Testament?"

"Yer a lotta laughs, Charlie, ya know dat?" He spat the offending phlegm ball that had finally broken free into a tissue and tossed it into his bedside trash can. "Do ya know how ta make a mustard plaster, by any chance?"

Charles furrowed his brows in thought. "Mustard plaster? As in the old folk remedy? It's almost unheard of in this day and age, but let me check with Jean-Pierre. If it's got anything remotely to do with food, he'll know." Charles turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Anything else before I go?"

"Yeah..." Pickles grabbed his used teacup and saucer from the nightstand and held it out for Charles to take. "Can ya ask Jean-Pierre fer some morra dat ginger tea? Since yer goin' there n' all..."

"Certainly. In the meantime, try to get some rest, Pickles." Charles took the cup and was gone.

Pickles' dreads had no sooner hit the pillow when the door burst open and Murderface rushed in to the drummer's bedside. "Man, Picklesch, I could hear you coughing all the way down the hall! Thisch isch great!"

The drummer blinked. "Great? What's so great about me bein' sick?"

"Well, I juscht got thisch brand new book on medieval medischine, scho I get to usche it on you, ischn't that aweschome?" Murderface waved his hands around excitedly as he spoke. "I mean, forget the bloodletting knivesch, thisch book hasch all new waysch to treat discheaschesch! Did you know, Picklesch, that you can treat baldnessch by rubbing goosche schit on your head? Geesche are almoscht schwans, right? That wouldn't be scho bad, right? We can schtart on that asch schoon asch I get your lungsch taken care of."

There was no way Pickles was going down that road again. Nearly dying once from Murderface's home remedies was bad enough, he'd have to be an utter fool to try anything like that again. "No whey, fergit it, Murderface. Ya ain't comin' near me while ahm sick, so just fergit about it."

Murderface looked crushed. "Well, I schtill have schome of thosech leechesch left over from the lascht time--" He ducked as an old beer bottle sailed toward his head. It shattered against the wall behind him and Murderface beat a hasty retreat from the room. "You'll be schorry you didn't lischten to me, you'll schee!" he yelled, slamming the door after him.

"Gaaaaahhhhhd..." Pickles hissed, punching his pillow in anger. "What does it take ta get some rest around here?" he lamented to himself as he tried to get comfortable once more. He half-expected an answer at this point, and stared at the door for a good few minutes wondering if someone else was going to wander in and bother him. When the door remained shut, Pickles took it as a good omen and settled into bed to doze.

Some time later, the creaking sound of his door opening dragged Pickles from sleep. It was probably Murderface again, wanting to test out some of his medieval cures. Since his arm was already dangling off of the bed, he searched around until his fingers found and closed on another beer bottle. Before the booted feet could take two steps into the room, Pickles flung the bottle at the intruder, and was rewarded when he actually hit his target. What he didn't expect, however, was the cacophony of tinkling glass, shattered china and the clatter of a metal tray hitting the floor, along with the sound of someone screaming like a scalded cat. The smell of ginger permeated the air and Pickles had a sinking feeling that he pegged the wrong intruder. The string of irate Norwegian curses that followed confirmed that Pickles had nailed Toki, and not in a good way.

A quick fumble with the light switch and the room lit up, showing Toki struggling to get his shirt off. The reason was apparent from the broken ceramic teapot lying at the Norwegian's feet. Toki finally managed to get his wet shirt over his head and stood there in wide-eyed shock, staring between the reddened skin of his chest and his bandmate sitting in the bed. "What de fucks, Pickle?" he finally managed to say. "I brings you specials tea from John-Pear, and you t'rows a bottle ats me? Whats I does to deserve dat?"

"Dood, I'm sorry! I didn't know it was you, Toki, I swear! I was half-asleep n' I thought--" Whatever he was going to say next vanished under a bout of violent coughing.

Toki, who was more shocked and surprised than angry, crossed over to the bed and sat down. "Aw, you ams one sick Pickle, amn't you?" He reached out to rub gentle circles on his friend's back until the coughing subsided. "Don'ts worry, old Toki gets you some more specials tea." He made a move to get up, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Toki," Pickles' throat was beginning to feel like sandpaper from all the coughing and he was going to sound like a miniature Nathan if he kept talking, but since the subject was on his mind... "Toki, ya remember when yer great aunt came ta visit?"

"You means Tante Jora? Da ones who reminds Skwisgaar of Bettys White from dat show about da GMILFs, so he sleeps wit' her and I almosts tears him into littles pieces, but then she say she ams a widows, not deads, and I shoulds lightens up, but we don'ts talks about dat, evers? Dat greats aunt? What abouts her?"

To Pickles, Toki looked like he still wanted to tear Skwisgaar into little pieces. No wonder he didn't like the subject to be brought up, but Pickles had to ask, he was getting fairly desperate at this point. "Dood, I just need ta know if she ever mentioned any Norwegian cures fer a bad cough, dat's all." He held up a finger as Toki opened his mouth to speak. "One dat doesn't involve fish," he added.

"Aw, yous no fun, Pickle, fish a cures-alls for everyt'ing." But Toki gamely gave it a thought. "Steams," he finally said. "Norwegians practically inventsted steams. Ams good for da lungs, you'll see." With that, Toki did get up from the bed. But instead of leaving, Toki headed for the drummer's bathroom.

Pickles hopped out of bed and trailed after him. "Dood, I thought saunas were invented in Finland," he pointed out as Toki turned on the hot water taps in the shower.

"Finland ams like Sverige, dey steals everyt'ings from us," Toki explained. "Norways inventsted vikings, and looks what happens...everybodies ams jumpings on de musics cart and wants to bes vikings, too!" Billowy clouds of steam started to fill the shower stall. "Hokay, you gets into de showers, I bes right back."

As soon as Toki left the room, Pickles skinned out of his tighty-whiteys and stepped into the shower. Hot water, nearly on the edge of scalding, cascaded down the drummer's body. Ignoring the temptation to turn it down, Pickles waited it out until the sensation was no longer uncomfortable. It took a few minutes, but the feeling of tight muscles beginning to relax in his chest was oh, so good. The intense steam was also working its magic in his lungs, as his coughs became more productive and less strenuous.

Memories of when he was a young boy with the croup slowly trickled into his brain. He remembered sitting in his mother's lap on the edge of the bathtub while steam from the showerhead filled the small room. Seth had pounded on the bathroom door and demanded to be let in, claiming that he had to pee. Molly did eventually give in and opened the door so Seth could use the toilet, but not before Pickles was feeling somewhat better. It was the only time he could remember his mother favoring him over his older brother.

So caught up was he in his memories, that Pickles didn't hear the bathroom door open and close. However, he did notice when the shower door opened and a six-foot-plus Norwegian stepped into the stall with him, naked as the day he was born. Pickles was definitely not prepared for that! It wasn't as if he hadn't shared a shower with a bandmate before. Some of the venues they had played in the past had such poor facilities that they were forced to double up in the shower in order to get out on the road on schedule. Other places had locker room style facilities, and the communal showers meant that no one had to wait to rid themselves of their runny corpse paint and stale sweat. Body shyness pretty much went out the window when faced with those conditions.

But having Toki in his own personal shower was a rare occurrence. So rare, in fact, that he couldn't remember when it had happened last. For reasons known only to Toki, the Norwegian on the odd occasion would crawl into bed with one of his bandmates to sleep. Whether it was from loneliness, cold or fright was anybody's guess. Most of the time, it was only the bed they shared. But once in a blue moon, Toki shared himself with his bed partner. Which more than likely led to a shared shower the next day. So having Toki in the shower with him without having had sex first was practically unheard of. Pickles wondered if the rhythm guitarist was feeling frisky for some reason. "Toki, dood," he said between coughs, "ya in the mood fer sum fun r' sumthin'? Cuz if so, ahm naht sure ahm really up fer it, if ya get my meanin'."

Toki stared at Pickles in shock. "Pickle! You ams sick! Dat wouldn't bes veries nice if I dids dat." He reached around the drummer to pluck the bar of soap off of its little shelf set into the tiles. "I just comes in to washes off da specials tea dat I gots all overs me. Makes no sense to use my showers when dis one alreadies going." He scrubbed his chest with the soap, wincing as his fingers dragged across the reddened flesh. "Besides, I wansted to checks on you to sees if you lungs ams feelings any betters. Ams you breathing betters, Pickle?"

"Loads better, thanks," Pickles said with a nod. Since he really wasn't in the shower to get clean, he backed up against the warm tiles, relinquishing the shower head to Toki. He noticed that the heat was deepening the angry red marks on Toki's chest. "Dood, won't all dis hot water make dat burn even worse?"

"Pfft, noes." Toki shot him a grin. "Ams stingy rights now, but I won'ts even feels it in a littles while. Ins da morning I not evens remembers it beings dere." He stopped lathering his belly and a blush crept over his features. "Umms, Pickle?" he asked hesitantly. "Cans you please turns around sos I can washes my ding-dong?"

"Huh?" Pickles suddenly realized that he was following the soap's progress down the Norwegian's body and tore his gaze away from Toki's slick, soapy abs. "Oh, okey, sure." He turned to face the corner with a blush of his own and began to study the ingredients on his bottle of dread shampoo to pass the time. Meanwhile, images of a wet and willing Toki flashed through his mind, soaped bodies rubbing together in just the right way...mouths mingling...flesh yielding...

Pickles yelped as a strong hand yanked him out of his reverie and back into the shower stream. The faint stirrings in his loins the daydream had started quickly receded as Toki pushed aside the curtain of long red dreads and began to vigorously scrub the drummer's back. "Toki, whet--" he started, before he was cut off as the younger man spun him around, putting his back to the spray.

"Backs ams hard to gets cleans by youselfs," was the only thing Toki offered in explanation. The look on his face was nearly apologetic as he reached out to gently wash the warm skin on Pickles' chest. "Don'ts worry, Pickle, I's gettings you all cleans," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "Yous just relax, hokay?"

"Okey," Pickles agreed, already relaxing under the Norwegian's tender ministrations. As calloused fingers worked their way over his throat and collarbones, Pickles closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Toki's hands on his body. His shoulders and arms were massaged firmly, but by the time those slippery fingers made their way back to Pickles' chest, Toki's touch was light and gentle, as if afraid to bruise the fragile lungs underneath skin and bone.

Toki's fingers slowly made their way down the drummer's chest to the pudgy belly underneath, rubbing a continuous circle around and around the smaller man's bellybutton. When Toki showed no inclination of doing anything else, Pickles opened his eyes and looked into his friend's face. The glazed-over eyes and faraway look he had told Pickles that Toki was having daydreams of his own at the moment. A glance down confirmed his suspicions. "Toki," he softly said, "ya can if ya wanna. It's okey, I don't mind."

Toki blinked, coming back to himself. With a flush that didn't come from the heat of the shower, Toki pulled his hand away. "I sorries, Pickle," he apologized as he backed away a little, "buts you ams not well enoughs yet. You needs rest, not excitesments. Some friends I is." Before he could berate himself any further, Toki dropped the soap into Pickles' hand. "You finishes up, okay? I needs to gets out; chest is kinda stingy."

It was a lie, they both knew it, but Pickles decided to let Toki have his dignity. "Sher, Toki, go ahead. I'll be out inna minute." Toki smiled gratefully, gave Pickles a quick peck on the cheek and exited the shower, leaving the drummer alone with his thoughts. Perhaps it was for the best, Pickles mused as he watched the obscure form of Toki drying himself off on the other side of the glass door. Toki would feel horrible and blame himself if sex led to a setback in the recovery process. If it really came down to a choice, breathing easier sure beat gasping and wheezing during sex any day of the week, even if the sex was great.

Sighing wistfully at the 'might have beens', Pickles finished cleaning himself up and turned off the shower. As he stepped out of the shower stall, he found himself enveloped in a warm, fluffy towel, as well as a warm, fluffy hug. Accepting both with good grace, Pickles reciprocated the kiss Toki had given him a moment ago. "Yer a champ fer takin' care a' me. Ya know that, doncha?"

"Aww, Pickle..." Toki released him before the moment became too awkward and turned around to let Pickles dry himself off in peace. He bided his time by finger-combing his damp hair into place while he waited for the drummer to finish, then plucked a pair of fleece pajama bottoms from the counter beside the sink. "Here, Pickle, puts dese on. For ams to keeps you warms."

Pickles eyed the sleepwear like they were a pickled herring sandwich being offered to him. They were a plain, dark blue; most likely Toki's. He had no doubt that they would fit for the most part, Toki liked his clothing a little loose. Thing was, the most Pickles ever wore to bed at any given time was his underwear, he hadn't worn actual pajamas since he was a kid. Toki, in sharp contrast, loved wearing pajamas, and could often be seen at the breakfast table still wearing the ones he slept in the night before. It was only during the stifling heat of the summer months that Toki would forgo the pajamas altogether and just wear boxer shorts to bed. However, unlike Pickles, Toki never wore them outside his room, unless he had his jeans on over them.

Pickles chuckled at the irony. Scandinavians, it was said, were the least repressed when it came to nudity. It was certainly true in Skwisgaar's case, who would lounge around the 'Haus naked most of the time if the others wouldn't get on his case about it. Toki was practically his polar opposite in that regard, casual nudity was simply not his thing. Pickles had often wondered if Toki's upbringing had anything to do with it. Even now Toki was clothed in a set of grey fleece pajamas adorned with sock monkey faces all over them. At least they were better than the Hello Kitty ones he had gotten from Murderface as a joke, though Toki still wore them on occasion.

When all was said and done, Pickles felt it best to humor Toki in this regard, so he took the pajama pants from the Norwegian's outstretched hand and slipped into them. Besides, he could always take them off later if he had to. Somewhere along the line it finally registered in Pickles' head that Toki was wearing pajamas, not a change of clothes. "Toki? Ya headin' fer bed early or sumthin'?"

Toki grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Ams part of da surprises I has fors you, Pickle. If you wants it."

"A surprise? Fer me?" Pickles couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a surprise. From anybody. "Sher, bring it on!"

With a laugh that would rival a child's on Christmas Day, Toki ran out of the bathroom, only to return a minute later carrying a warm blanket. Before Pickles could even ask about it, Toki draped the blanket over the drummer's back and shoulders. "Dis for ams to keeps you warms while I takes you to da surprise, Pickle," Toki explained. "You won't wants me to carries you ins my arms, so you gets a Toki-backs ride, hokay?"

Toki's enthusiasm was infectious. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been carried through Mordhaus, but at least he'd be conscious this time around. "Well, I've always wanted my own pony," Pickles laughed. "I hope ya don't collapse halfway through da trip."

"Pfft. Norske ponies may be littles, but dey strongs. I not lets you go, Pickle. Trusts old Toki."

Sitting himself up on the counter so Toki wouldn't have to bend so far, Pickles situated himself on Toki's back, latching on like a redheaded koala. Once the blanket was tucked in securely around his small frame, Pickles gave his friend a pat on the head. "Hi-Ho Silver...aweyyyy!"

"Ams Toki, nots Silvers." The Norwegian cocked his head to one side to look at Pickles sidelong. "You beens drinkings de coughings syrups again?"

Pickles deflated with a sigh. "Never mind, jest giddyup or sumthin'." As Toki made his sure-footed way through the darkened hallways, Pickles leaned a little forward to ask, "So, where're we goin', anywhey?"

Without breaking stride, Toki replied, "We ams goes to my secrets place."

"Secret place, huh?" Pickles mulled that over a moment. "But Toki," he finally said, "it won't be a secret if I know about it, too."

Toki laughed softly. "You won'ts tells anysone, Pickle. I trusts you. Now just sits back and enjoys da ride, hokay?"

"Sher thing, kid. Yer da boss."

With Toki now radiating heat like a furnace from all the exercise, Pickles found it very easy to plaster himself to the Norwegian's back like a baby monkey to its mother. The warmth, trapped by the blanket, combined with the motion of Toki walking, served to make the drummer sleepy, and he found himself laying his head down upon a strong shoulder to doze.

He didn't wake up again until he heard the rhythm guitarist addressing someone in a stern voice: "You gets everyt'ings I asks for?"

"Yes, sire," replied a deep voice. "The room has been prepared as per your instructions."

Pickles lifted his head and stared bleary-eyed at a Klokateer standing right in front of them. Once he could focus properly again, he took a look around to get his bearings. Judging from the myriad assortment of cars off to one side, Toki must have brought him to the garage for some reason. The reason became apparent a second later as the sound of heavy, metal doors screeched open to his immediate left. A glance in that direction told Pickles that not only had Toki brought them to the garage, but their main destination was-- "Da tour bus, Toki?"

"Pickle! You ams awakes! Ams was just abouts to tells you to holds on realies tight to old Toki." He nuzzled Pickles briefly to make sure the drummer was awake. Or, at least, somewhat alert. "I needs to gets a runnings starts."

"Runnin' start?!" Not liking the sound of that, Pickles literally wrapped his arms and legs around Toki as best as he could. "Whatcha need a runnin' start fer?"

Toki trotted a few yards away from the bus, then turned to face the open portal. "To gets up da ramps, of course." He broke into a run, and, despite his burden, moved at a pretty good clip. Pickles let out a squeak and hid his face in the crook of Toki's neck, certain they were both going to take a disastrous tumble. But Toki proved to be as sure-footed as he claimed to be; his bare feet slapping hollowly against the steel ramp as he ran up the incline. He didn't slow down until he felt carpeting under his feet, and by the time he stopped completely, he was two steps away from falling into the hot tub in the center of the floor. "Wowee," he gasped as he caught his breath, "dat was funs."

"Fun?!" If Pickles wasn't still holding on to Toki for dear life he would have throttled the man. "Toki, ya could've tripped n' fell or sumthin'! We coulda been hurt!"

Toki snorted dismissively. "How manys times I gots to tells everysone dat I gots de mountain goats feets?" he asked, walking Pickles over to one of the plush couches and sliding him off onto it, blanket and all. He plopped himself down next to the drummer a second later. "I tells you dat I won'ts lets go ands I won'ts. Evers."

"Yeah, yeah, jest warn a body next time, okey?" Of course, Pickles vowed to himself that there wasn't going to be a next time, as far as he was concerned. He looked around the darkened interior of the main room. It didn't look any different than it normally did, just colder and darker since the huge fireplace at the far end of the room wasn't lit. Pickles scratched his head, confused. "So, dis is yer surprise, Toki? Yer secret place is da tour bus?

Toki took a casual glimpse around, himself. "Nots exactlies, Pickle," he said with a sly grin. Levering himself to his feet again, Toki held a hand out for the drummer to take. "Come ons, I shows you my for realies secrets place."

Pickles shrugged and allowed himself to be led down a hallway toward the band's personal quarters. Their individual rooms on the tour bus were very similar to the ones they occupied in Mordhaus proper, the only difference being that they were much smaller and way less extravagent than the originals.

When Toki put his hand on the knob that led into Nathan's room, Pickles gasped in surprise. "Dood," he whispered, his eyes wide from shock, "dat's yer secret place? Nate'n'll break us in half if he catches us in dere!"

"What Nat'ens not knows not kills him," Toki replied as he turned the knob and opened the door. The large expanse of Nathan's bed took up most of the available space and it was the first thing that caught the eyes as they looked into the room. The black silk sheets that adorned Nathan's bed in the 'Haus proper were replicated here, too, but someone had added a simple white plush comforter to the center of the bed, along with an assortment of pillows and blankets. Sitting right in the middle of everything, like a king who owned it all, was Deddy Bear.

Laughing, Toki crawled onto the massive bed and made his way to the center of it, scooping Deddy up along the way. He peeled away one of the blankets and sat himself on the white comforter. "Come get comfies, Pickle!" he called, patting a spot next to him.

Pickles, however, was not as brave as Toki was, and he hung about in the doorway, undecided. "Dood, we're gonna get in so much trouble," he warbled softly, looking over his shoulder as if expecting Nathan to show up at any moment.

"Aww, Pickle, Nat'ens not cares, no ones cares. Dat's why it ams my secrets place, no ones bot'ers me if I ams heres." Toki continued to try to coax the drummer into bed, waving him over with his hands. "Comes to beds, Pickle, please?"

Pickles hesitated in the doorway a moment longer until the Norwegian's beseeching pale blue eyes, nearly colorless in the dim light of the bedroom, finally won out. Closing the door behind him, Pickles gingerly made his way across the mattress to Toki's side. With a tenderness that could only be described as a mish-mash of maternal, fraternal, and something way more intimate, Toki eased his friend down into the softness of the comforter and covered them both with a blanket. Strong arms wrapped themselves around the smaller man's frame and pulled him close, cuddling him like a large plush toy. Pickles snuggled in gratefully, actively seeking the natural body heat the younger man offered.

Before he could get totally comfortable, however, Toki abruptly excused himself and crawled out of their warm nest. Thinking that the Norwegian was simply going to relieve himself in the bathroom, Pickles scootched himself forward to take advantage of the warm spot Toki left behind. A small click, like the sound of a switch being flipped, reached his ears, followed by the whirring hum of a machine being turned on. Curious, Pickles raised his head to see Toki fiddling with a small machine that was placed on one of the nightstands at the head of the bed. By the time Toki had crawled back to resume his place under the blanket, the medicinal smell of menthol tickled his nose.

"I forgots to turns on de steams-machine," Toki said in apology. As he settled himself beside Pickles once more, he asked as an afterthought, "You wants me to rubs de ointsments on yous chest too, Pickle?"

"Nah, mebbe later, if ahm still feelin' rotten." He curled into Toki's chest as his friend's arms wrapped around him once more. "Ya thought of everythin', didn'ja, Toki? Da humidifer, da Vapo-rub, da warm blankets, da hot shower... All I need now is sum ginger tea n' ahm ready ta settle in fer a week."

"Charlies will sends more specials tea in a littles bit. I t'inks hims and John-Pear ams tryings to figures out de mustards bandage."

Pickles grinned, but didn't bother to correct Toki's lingual gaffe. "Hmm, I thought ya said that dis was yer secret place n' no one knows about it."

Fingers that were accustomed to plucking out quick rhythms on a guitar now began a slow caress on Pickles' dreads. He pet the redhead like he would a cat, starting at the top and sweeping his hand down the long ropes of hair to their tips, repeating the gesture over and over again in a soothing rhythm.

"Onlies Charlies, no ones else," Toki replied after a few minutes. "He makes me promise to tells him whensever I comes out here, sos he cans finds me if he has to. I t'ink I scares him de first times I hides in here and he can'ts finds me."

Pickles thought back to the times Toki would disappear for days on end. It didn't happen very often and the band assumed that Toki had holed up in his room for all that time. "Dood, why would ya wanna hide out in here? N' why Nate'n's room, why naht use your own?"

"I just wants to bes alones, dats all." Thinking for a moment, Toki sought to explain himself better. "Mostlies, I comes here whens I feelings sick; dis place ams quiets and no ones bot'ers me at all. Somestimes, I hides here because I's sads, and Charlies makes me go talks to Twinks-lettuce if he sees me sads, so I tells Charlies I's sick, and stays here for a littles bit."

He interrupted himself by pressing his lips to Pickles' forehead for a few seconds, as if testing for a fever. Or forestalling any comments the drummer might make. "Anyshow," he went on, "Nat'en's bed ams de bestest ones on de bus. So, so comfies."

"Why naht get one fer yer own room, den?"

Toki snorted. "Den I nevers comes out. How ams we supposed to records if I's in my rooms all de times?"

Pickles had to admit, Toki had a point, in a sort of roundabout way. "Heh. Ya'd really be a hermit?"

"Noes, ams pretty sures I's nots a frog. Ams you sure you amn't drinkings de coughings syrups, Pickle?"

The drummer rolled his eyes. "Never mind, Toki, it ain't important. Jest...don't let go, okey?"

"Nevers evers, Pickle." This time, Toki actually did give Pickles a kiss on the forehead. "Now, goes to sleeps. I bes here whens you wakes up, Toki promises."

Between the cozy warmth of the bed and Toki's light, soothing touches on his hair, Pickles fell asleep in his friend's arms, assured in the knowledge that he wouldn't wake up alone. For the first time, strangely enough, it was just what he wanted.