rusty spoons
Rusty Spoons | Marshall/Ian | pg-13 | 925
for Patty, as everything Cab-related I do is. “You okay?” Ian asks softly, nuzzling Marshall’s neck. Marshall hums then sneezes again. “Obviously not,” Ian frowns and lifts a hand to Marshall’s forehead, trying to feel for his temperature, but Marshall just crankily slaps his hand away.
When Marshall sneezes, something automatic happens: an ugly stream of curses. And being as he sneezes every two or three minutes right now, the air is full of nothing but swear words and bacteria and the sound of Deleon snoring in the front passenger seat.
Ian has sort of been pretending to sleep whilst contemplating how to deal with this. Eventually, he peeps his eyes open and tries not to disturb anyone as he reaches for the toilet roll and cold medicine in the footwell below him, leaning and trying to stay as silent as possible.
“Ian?” Marshall groans, and Ian’s eyes widen. He’d been planning to climb over into the back with him anyway, but what does the guy have, the hearing of a dolphin? “Ian, you’re thinking too loudly.” He sneezes and swears again, then makes this tiny pathetic noise in the back of his throat and something that sounds a teeny bit like a sob. “Iaaan.”
“M’coming,” Ian whispers, and retrieves the things before sitting up and twisting, trying to avoid kicking anyone or waking anyone up. With Deleon in the front, Sonny in the passenger, the rest of them (being Marshall, Ian, Cash, Johnson and Hodge) somehow manage to split between the back and the benches - it’s bit of a squeeze, but it works, so long as you don’t try and do what Ian is doing now.
Which is climbing over the back of the seat to get to Marshall. Ian kicks someone whose head is buried under their blanket, and he thinks it’s Johnson who growls at him from under it, and Ian just squeaks an apology before he tumbles into the back and nearly lands on the sick pianist. “Sorry, hi,” Ian whispers and kisses his forehead.
“You took too long,” Marshall mumbles. Ian hands him the tissue just in time for Marshall for tear a few sheets off and sneeze into them, and Ian swerves as Marshall starts cussing again. He blinks, red-eyed and weepy, up at Ian, who is propped up on his elbow. “I’m sick,” he states. Ian resists making any kind of snide comment, just raises an eyebrow and holds up the cold medicine.
Marshall smiles, even though it barely lasts before he coughs pathetically and groans, burying his face into the pillow. The back of the van is usually where Deleon lives when he gets sick. For once, he’s actually pretty healthy. The back of Ian’s mind thinks how well, why does Marshall have to get sick instead? How is that fair? but he would never say it aloud.
Not unless he was really, really drunk. And even then he’d maybe whisper it.
Ian sits back up to find a bottle of water, then pops two of the medicine pills out of the packet and shakes Marshall a little. “C’mon, you. Take these.” Marshall groans and sits up and pouts and Ian asks, cautiously as Marshall sips the water and swallows the pills, “Are you gonna throw up?”
Marshall laughs, rough and sad sounding, and shakes his head as he lies back down. Ian puts the things aside and crawls around so he’s behind Marshall, setting himself heavily down just as Marshall sneezes.
This time, someone else cusses them out. It’s Cash, Ian thinks, because Cash always sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. “Shut up, jesus.” There’s a pause, and it’s definitely Cash because he adds, “If you two phuck, so help me god, I will force feed you - “ He pauses, and Ian presses his mouth to Marshall’s neck to muffle his laughter. “Uh, something.” This time Marshall laughs, and Ian wheezes from trying to stay quiet as he wraps his arms around Marshall and snuggles close to him.
“I’ll cut your balls off with a rusty spoon,” Cash decides to add, a few minutes later, then his voice evaporates, and a gentle snoring takes over not long after. Ian takes one hand away from Marshall’s stomach to hold to his mouth, coughing away the chuckles before he resumes his place curled up close to Marshall.
“You okay?” Ian asks softly, nuzzling Marshall’s neck. Marshall hums then sneezes again. “Obviously not,” Ian frowns and lifts a hand to Marshall’s forehead, trying to feel for his temperature, but Marshall just crankily slaps his hand away.
“I’m not a girl.” Someone in the van laughs. “I don’t need my temperature taken.” Marshall sighs and grasps Ian’s hand with his, “If I puke, I hope it gets all over you, and that you get sick.”
Ian makes an alarmed face. “God, why?”
“Because then you can know how it feels to be mollycoddled by your boyfriend.”
Ian smiles. “You’re cute when you try to tell me off.” Marshall starts to curse at him, but Ian ignores the fact that Marsh is sick to twist and lean over him, to kiss him square on the mouth. “I love you,” he whispers. “Is it flu or just a cold?”
“Just a cold, I think,” Marshall whispers back. “I love you too. Why are we whispering?”
Ian makes a face then says, “Rusty spoons.”
Marshall nods. “Right.” He pauses. “Cuddle me until I sleep?”
“I was already planning on that,” Ian admits, and kisses Marshall again before they settle back down. It’s almost silent in the van, broken by snores, but Marshall’s sneezes subside to snuffles and Ian would like to think he has something to do with it.
Marshall sleeps, eventually, and Ian whispers a final “Feel better” and kisses his ear before following suit.
for Patty, as everything Cab-related I do is. “You okay?” Ian asks softly, nuzzling Marshall’s neck. Marshall hums then sneezes again. “Obviously not,” Ian frowns and lifts a hand to Marshall’s forehead, trying to feel for his temperature, but Marshall just crankily slaps his hand away.
When Marshall sneezes, something automatic happens: an ugly stream of curses. And being as he sneezes every two or three minutes right now, the air is full of nothing but swear words and bacteria and the sound of Deleon snoring in the front passenger seat.
Ian has sort of been pretending to sleep whilst contemplating how to deal with this. Eventually, he peeps his eyes open and tries not to disturb anyone as he reaches for the toilet roll and cold medicine in the footwell below him, leaning and trying to stay as silent as possible.
“Ian?” Marshall groans, and Ian’s eyes widen. He’d been planning to climb over into the back with him anyway, but what does the guy have, the hearing of a dolphin? “Ian, you’re thinking too loudly.” He sneezes and swears again, then makes this tiny pathetic noise in the back of his throat and something that sounds a teeny bit like a sob. “Iaaan.”
“M’coming,” Ian whispers, and retrieves the things before sitting up and twisting, trying to avoid kicking anyone or waking anyone up. With Deleon in the front, Sonny in the passenger, the rest of them (being Marshall, Ian, Cash, Johnson and Hodge) somehow manage to split between the back and the benches - it’s bit of a squeeze, but it works, so long as you don’t try and do what Ian is doing now.
Which is climbing over the back of the seat to get to Marshall. Ian kicks someone whose head is buried under their blanket, and he thinks it’s Johnson who growls at him from under it, and Ian just squeaks an apology before he tumbles into the back and nearly lands on the sick pianist. “Sorry, hi,” Ian whispers and kisses his forehead.
“You took too long,” Marshall mumbles. Ian hands him the tissue just in time for Marshall for tear a few sheets off and sneeze into them, and Ian swerves as Marshall starts cussing again. He blinks, red-eyed and weepy, up at Ian, who is propped up on his elbow. “I’m sick,” he states. Ian resists making any kind of snide comment, just raises an eyebrow and holds up the cold medicine.
Marshall smiles, even though it barely lasts before he coughs pathetically and groans, burying his face into the pillow. The back of the van is usually where Deleon lives when he gets sick. For once, he’s actually pretty healthy. The back of Ian’s mind thinks how well, why does Marshall have to get sick instead? How is that fair? but he would never say it aloud.
Not unless he was really, really drunk. And even then he’d maybe whisper it.
Ian sits back up to find a bottle of water, then pops two of the medicine pills out of the packet and shakes Marshall a little. “C’mon, you. Take these.” Marshall groans and sits up and pouts and Ian asks, cautiously as Marshall sips the water and swallows the pills, “Are you gonna throw up?”
Marshall laughs, rough and sad sounding, and shakes his head as he lies back down. Ian puts the things aside and crawls around so he’s behind Marshall, setting himself heavily down just as Marshall sneezes.
This time, someone else cusses them out. It’s Cash, Ian thinks, because Cash always sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. “Shut up, jesus.” There’s a pause, and it’s definitely Cash because he adds, “If you two phuck, so help me god, I will force feed you - “ He pauses, and Ian presses his mouth to Marshall’s neck to muffle his laughter. “Uh, something.” This time Marshall laughs, and Ian wheezes from trying to stay quiet as he wraps his arms around Marshall and snuggles close to him.
“I’ll cut your balls off with a rusty spoon,” Cash decides to add, a few minutes later, then his voice evaporates, and a gentle snoring takes over not long after. Ian takes one hand away from Marshall’s stomach to hold to his mouth, coughing away the chuckles before he resumes his place curled up close to Marshall.
“You okay?” Ian asks softly, nuzzling Marshall’s neck. Marshall hums then sneezes again. “Obviously not,” Ian frowns and lifts a hand to Marshall’s forehead, trying to feel for his temperature, but Marshall just crankily slaps his hand away.
“I’m not a girl.” Someone in the van laughs. “I don’t need my temperature taken.” Marshall sighs and grasps Ian’s hand with his, “If I puke, I hope it gets all over you, and that you get sick.”
Ian makes an alarmed face. “God, why?”
“Because then you can know how it feels to be mollycoddled by your boyfriend.”
Ian smiles. “You’re cute when you try to tell me off.” Marshall starts to curse at him, but Ian ignores the fact that Marsh is sick to twist and lean over him, to kiss him square on the mouth. “I love you,” he whispers. “Is it flu or just a cold?”
“Just a cold, I think,” Marshall whispers back. “I love you too. Why are we whispering?”
Ian makes a face then says, “Rusty spoons.”
Marshall nods. “Right.” He pauses. “Cuddle me until I sleep?”
“I was already planning on that,” Ian admits, and kisses Marshall again before they settle back down. It’s almost silent in the van, broken by snores, but Marshall’s sneezes subside to snuffles and Ian would like to think he has something to do with it.
Marshall sleeps, eventually, and Ian whispers a final “Feel better” and kisses his ear before following suit.