untitled sick-three-days-before-christmas fic
(instead of holiday fic i bring you sick-three-days-before-christmas fic.)
The weather outside is beautiful, the city is aglow with festive feeling, and Quince is having a terrible day. He's hungover, because he's stupid, and he's sick, because he sleeps next to a plague vector who spends half of every winter either getting over or coming down with something, and he's angry and a little sad, because that morning he made the mistake of talking to his stepfather about Christmas Eve. It's not his fault he got sick three days before Christmas, and he wishes his stepfather wouldn't act like it was. He's just going to have to accept that the guy doesn't think much of him and probably never will.
It's a depressing thing to realize about the man who married your mother and tried parent you when you were an obstinate teenager.
He's supposed to be at Doolittle's, but he convinced Ricky to cover most of his shift and then texted Tami to let her know. Jack has gone to work, after leaving explicit instructions for Quince to stay hydrated when he's awake, to eat the oranges in the kitchen, and to sleep as much as possible.
“I'll get you some wonton soup on the way home,” Jack added. “And maybe another box of Kleenex.”
But Quince's head is too stuffed up for Kleenex, and he feels too crappy to be hungry. He can hear Marna's roommate Cara in his head, telling him that chicken soup is Mother Nature's own cold medicine, but right now he doesn't want even that.
When he was little, when he was sick enough to stay home from school, his mother would set him up on the couch rather that let him sleep in his bed. She thought the air circulation was better in the rest of the apartment, and staying in his room all day, surrounded by sick germs, would make his recovery that much slower. He doesn't believe in that, but all the same, he can't lie in bed all day either. So he makes himself some Theraflu because the steam makes his head feel better, and he sits on the couch and tries to find something on TV.
It turns out that he's too tired and too hungover to concentrate on the TV or Facebook or Tumblr or anything, and he's definitely too slow in the head to read. He has a Pop-Tart with his Theraflu, because it's so sweet he can actually taste it and because he knows he should eat something, and he finds something on Netflix he's seen a thousand times, and he falls asleep.
He wakes up a couple of times and forces himself to drink some orange juice even though it hurts his throat, and he pees, and he thinks about changing into something that isn't sweaty and germy, but decides that's too much work, and lies back down on the couch and goes back to sleep.
The door buzzer finally wakes him. He thinks it's his phone, and stares at the screen for a minute before he realizes that it isn't making noise and it isn't vibrating, but he evidently missed some messages. Jack left a long voice mail that Quince doesn't feel like listening to, but there's also a text that says “I deputized Marna, don't worry about it”, one from Marna that says “I said I'd get your soup. Do you want that spicy eggplant too? I can't spell it”, and one from Tami that says “It's under control, just get better”. Tami's is the only one that makes sense.
The door buzzes again, he realizes what the noise is, and he hauls himself off the couch to answer.
“Yeah?” he says into the intercom.
“It's Marna,” a voice answers. “Can I come up? Your dinner's getting cold.”
He remembers that Jack said he'd get soup on the way home. Why is Marna here instead? He lets her in.
“You never answered my text so I thought I'd get you an eggplant anyway,” she says when she comes in. She hands him a plastic bag. “Jack thought you might want it.” At what must be his completely baffled expression, she adds “Didn't you get his message?”
“He left me a voice mail but I haven't listened to it,” Quince says. “What did he say?”
“One of the baristas at his work invited a bunch of people over. He said he called you to ask if it was ok if he went - like, did you want him to come home instead - and then he went anyway. He told me to bring you wonton soup and Szechwan eggplant. You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” he says drily. “I feel terrible. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” She grins brightly. “Jack's going to pay me back. Are you going to be ok? Do you want me to stay and keep you company?”
“No, I'm good. I'm gonna eat and go back to sleep.”
“I'll tell Jack I delivered your food safely and you weren't dead.” She grins again. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
She leaves. He makes himself another mug of Theraflu, drinks his soup, and eats some of the eggplant. He's grateful Jack thought of it, because it's spicy enough to cut through his stuffed-up sinuses. He's also grateful Jack decided to go over to his coworker's house rather than come home - Quince hates having to let Jack take care of him. He doesn't really like anyone taking care of him, but Jack especially.
He puts the rest of the eggplant in the fridge and takes a couple of cold and flu meds. He still feels stuffed up and sluggish and fevery, but he isn't hungover any more and his earlier anger has faded into mere disappointment. He stretches out on the couch and manages to stay awake for almost an hour of something that looks vaguely familiar before he's unconscious again.
Jack wakes him up this time, with “I'm home, it's late, go to bed”. Quince obediently rolls off the couch, goes to the bathroom, and stumbles into the bedroom. He can hear Jack moving around. He suddenly remembers he's working at Doolittle's again tomorrow. He should really go in if at all possible. It will be two days before Christmas and the store will be crazy.
Jack eventually turns off the lights in the rest of the apartment, comes into the bedroom, changes into his pajamas, and climbs into bed. He flattens himself against Quince's back and presses his face into Quince's shoulder.
“Don't,” Quince says.
“Don't what?” Jack's voice is muffled.
“Sleep right next to me. You'll get sick.”
Jack snickers. He must have turned his head, because now his words are clear. “No I won't. I'm a little pickled. Green and briny.”
“What?”
“One of Soren's roommates makes mead. Weird, right? He lets it ferment in the bathtub. We had to try it. It's really good.” Quince can feel him shifting position, apparently trying to plaster himself against Quince's back. “You're warm. It's so cold out.”
“I have a fever. Oh, thanks for sending Marna with food.”
“The eggplant was a good idea, huh? How're you feeling? I figured you probably didn't need me to come home, but I didn't want you to be hungry, and I told you I'd get you wonton soup. Did you eat anything else?”
“I had a Pop-Tart.”
Jack snorts.
“It's food,” Quince says. “I could taste it.”
“You sound stuffed up. Did I ask you how you felt?”
“Like shit. I shouldn't have gone to Gibson's last night. But I'm not hungover any more.”
“Good. I told you about the mead, right? We should get some. Maybe it will kill your germs. I thought Soren was going to feed us, I don't know why I thought that, but he made us cook. It was fun. Not just because of the mead.”
Listening to Jack talk is soothing like listening to the TV. Quince can feel himself falling asleep again, and he hopes Jack doesn't mind if he drops off in the middle of whatever story Jack has decided to tell. He thinks Jack will understand. And then he's asleep and it doesn't matter.
note: doolittle's is the pet store where quince works. two-three days before christmas it's probably full of people buying presents for their pets.
The weather outside is beautiful, the city is aglow with festive feeling, and Quince is having a terrible day. He's hungover, because he's stupid, and he's sick, because he sleeps next to a plague vector who spends half of every winter either getting over or coming down with something, and he's angry and a little sad, because that morning he made the mistake of talking to his stepfather about Christmas Eve. It's not his fault he got sick three days before Christmas, and he wishes his stepfather wouldn't act like it was. He's just going to have to accept that the guy doesn't think much of him and probably never will.
It's a depressing thing to realize about the man who married your mother and tried parent you when you were an obstinate teenager.
He's supposed to be at Doolittle's, but he convinced Ricky to cover most of his shift and then texted Tami to let her know. Jack has gone to work, after leaving explicit instructions for Quince to stay hydrated when he's awake, to eat the oranges in the kitchen, and to sleep as much as possible.
“I'll get you some wonton soup on the way home,” Jack added. “And maybe another box of Kleenex.”
But Quince's head is too stuffed up for Kleenex, and he feels too crappy to be hungry. He can hear Marna's roommate Cara in his head, telling him that chicken soup is Mother Nature's own cold medicine, but right now he doesn't want even that.
When he was little, when he was sick enough to stay home from school, his mother would set him up on the couch rather that let him sleep in his bed. She thought the air circulation was better in the rest of the apartment, and staying in his room all day, surrounded by sick germs, would make his recovery that much slower. He doesn't believe in that, but all the same, he can't lie in bed all day either. So he makes himself some Theraflu because the steam makes his head feel better, and he sits on the couch and tries to find something on TV.
It turns out that he's too tired and too hungover to concentrate on the TV or Facebook or Tumblr or anything, and he's definitely too slow in the head to read. He has a Pop-Tart with his Theraflu, because it's so sweet he can actually taste it and because he knows he should eat something, and he finds something on Netflix he's seen a thousand times, and he falls asleep.
He wakes up a couple of times and forces himself to drink some orange juice even though it hurts his throat, and he pees, and he thinks about changing into something that isn't sweaty and germy, but decides that's too much work, and lies back down on the couch and goes back to sleep.
The door buzzer finally wakes him. He thinks it's his phone, and stares at the screen for a minute before he realizes that it isn't making noise and it isn't vibrating, but he evidently missed some messages. Jack left a long voice mail that Quince doesn't feel like listening to, but there's also a text that says “I deputized Marna, don't worry about it”, one from Marna that says “I said I'd get your soup. Do you want that spicy eggplant too? I can't spell it”, and one from Tami that says “It's under control, just get better”. Tami's is the only one that makes sense.
The door buzzes again, he realizes what the noise is, and he hauls himself off the couch to answer.
“Yeah?” he says into the intercom.
“It's Marna,” a voice answers. “Can I come up? Your dinner's getting cold.”
He remembers that Jack said he'd get soup on the way home. Why is Marna here instead? He lets her in.
“You never answered my text so I thought I'd get you an eggplant anyway,” she says when she comes in. She hands him a plastic bag. “Jack thought you might want it.” At what must be his completely baffled expression, she adds “Didn't you get his message?”
“He left me a voice mail but I haven't listened to it,” Quince says. “What did he say?”
“One of the baristas at his work invited a bunch of people over. He said he called you to ask if it was ok if he went - like, did you want him to come home instead - and then he went anyway. He told me to bring you wonton soup and Szechwan eggplant. You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” he says drily. “I feel terrible. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” She grins brightly. “Jack's going to pay me back. Are you going to be ok? Do you want me to stay and keep you company?”
“No, I'm good. I'm gonna eat and go back to sleep.”
“I'll tell Jack I delivered your food safely and you weren't dead.” She grins again. “Give me a call if you need anything.”
She leaves. He makes himself another mug of Theraflu, drinks his soup, and eats some of the eggplant. He's grateful Jack thought of it, because it's spicy enough to cut through his stuffed-up sinuses. He's also grateful Jack decided to go over to his coworker's house rather than come home - Quince hates having to let Jack take care of him. He doesn't really like anyone taking care of him, but Jack especially.
He puts the rest of the eggplant in the fridge and takes a couple of cold and flu meds. He still feels stuffed up and sluggish and fevery, but he isn't hungover any more and his earlier anger has faded into mere disappointment. He stretches out on the couch and manages to stay awake for almost an hour of something that looks vaguely familiar before he's unconscious again.
Jack wakes him up this time, with “I'm home, it's late, go to bed”. Quince obediently rolls off the couch, goes to the bathroom, and stumbles into the bedroom. He can hear Jack moving around. He suddenly remembers he's working at Doolittle's again tomorrow. He should really go in if at all possible. It will be two days before Christmas and the store will be crazy.
Jack eventually turns off the lights in the rest of the apartment, comes into the bedroom, changes into his pajamas, and climbs into bed. He flattens himself against Quince's back and presses his face into Quince's shoulder.
“Don't,” Quince says.
“Don't what?” Jack's voice is muffled.
“Sleep right next to me. You'll get sick.”
Jack snickers. He must have turned his head, because now his words are clear. “No I won't. I'm a little pickled. Green and briny.”
“What?”
“One of Soren's roommates makes mead. Weird, right? He lets it ferment in the bathtub. We had to try it. It's really good.” Quince can feel him shifting position, apparently trying to plaster himself against Quince's back. “You're warm. It's so cold out.”
“I have a fever. Oh, thanks for sending Marna with food.”
“The eggplant was a good idea, huh? How're you feeling? I figured you probably didn't need me to come home, but I didn't want you to be hungry, and I told you I'd get you wonton soup. Did you eat anything else?”
“I had a Pop-Tart.”
Jack snorts.
“It's food,” Quince says. “I could taste it.”
“You sound stuffed up. Did I ask you how you felt?”
“Like shit. I shouldn't have gone to Gibson's last night. But I'm not hungover any more.”
“Good. I told you about the mead, right? We should get some. Maybe it will kill your germs. I thought Soren was going to feed us, I don't know why I thought that, but he made us cook. It was fun. Not just because of the mead.”
Listening to Jack talk is soothing like listening to the TV. Quince can feel himself falling asleep again, and he hopes Jack doesn't mind if he drops off in the middle of whatever story Jack has decided to tell. He thinks Jack will understand. And then he's asleep and it doesn't matter.
note: doolittle's is the pet store where quince works. two-three days before christmas it's probably full of people buying presents for their pets.