In Which Brad Is Sick and There Is Schmoop.
rating: g
word count: ~500
disclaimer: don't own. never happened.
a/n: a small drabble for sarrni_korppi whose prompts were "blankets, thunderstorms"
“Caaaassidy,” Brad half-whines, half-groans as the line picks up.
“Hey, it’s Cassidy! I can’t pick up the phone now, but I’ll call you back!”
“Caaaassidy,” Brad wails through the phone. “I have the flu!” He expects an answer, forgetting momentarily that he’s talking to voicemail. He sighs and drops his phone on his nightstand and rolls over, burrowing himself deeper into his den of fluffy white quilts.
His phone rings just then, and he has half a mind to throw it at the wall. Fuck you, Cass, he wants to say. “Hi,” he breathes.
“Are you okay?” Cassidy asks.
“No,” he whines. “My head is killing me; Sarah came over and said that I have a fever; Marcus said my skin was blotchy, and I threw up twice last night,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Well, if your skin is blotchy, it must be bad,” Cassidy laughs, and Brad smiles.
“It looks worse in front of a camera,” he counters lamely.
“Ah,” Cassidy hums. “Beauty is a fickle thing.”
“Don’t say that,” Brad wails. “Don’t ever say that!”
All he gets in response is laughter so he continues. “Caaaaassidy,” he begs, stretching out the vowels. “Come cuddle with me.”
“Sweetie, I gotta work,” Cassidy laughs, and Brad huffs, pouting the Cheeks pout as Cassidy tells him to hang in there. “I’ll come by as soon as the meeting’s over.”
“Fine,” Brad answers, a little (okay, very) dejectedly.
“Feel better.”
“Thanks,” but Cassidy’s already gone.
He tries to catch some sleep, but the rain is beating hard against his window, pounding in his ears. “Aw, Christ,” Brad seethes as a flash of lightning immediately followed by the roaring thunder resounded throughout his bedroom.
It’s freezing in his room. He wants to turn on the heater, but his muscles ache, and the thought of having to walk down the hall makes him shiver. Or maybe that’s the flu.
He curls up, his cold hands rubbing his legs, trying to create some heat. He’s preoccupied enough that he doesn’t hear his front door open.
“Cheeks,” Cassidy calls from down the hall. “It’s fucking freezing in here! I’m gonna turn on your heater if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead,” he answers, though he realizes, a few seconds too late, that Cassidy probably can’t hear him through his layers of blankets.
He tries to listen for Cassidy’s movements, but the quilts are too thick, and only when Cassidy lifts the sheets to clamber in, does he even realize that Cassidy’s in the room.
“I thought you had work,” he pouts, though he immediately reaches up to touch Cassidy’s arm.
“I am working,” Cassidy says, surprised. “Taking care of a sick Cheeks is work.”
“But your meeting-”
“Eh,” Cassidy waves him off. “They can live without me for one meeting.”
Brad smiles and is about to answer before a loud crash of thunder rumbles past.
“I hate this fucking thunder,” he mumbles as he presses himself closer to Cassidy’s warm body.
“You love thunderstorms,” Cassidy answers gently, pulling him in.
“Not when they make my head spin.”
Cassidy leans in and brushes his lips against Brad’s forehead. “Aw, sweetheart,” he says sympathetically.
Brad closes his eyes and listens to sound of the rain, matching the quiet thumpthump of Cassidy’s heart.
word count: ~500
disclaimer: don't own. never happened.
a/n: a small drabble for sarrni_korppi whose prompts were "blankets, thunderstorms"
“Caaaassidy,” Brad half-whines, half-groans as the line picks up.
“Hey, it’s Cassidy! I can’t pick up the phone now, but I’ll call you back!”
“Caaaassidy,” Brad wails through the phone. “I have the flu!” He expects an answer, forgetting momentarily that he’s talking to voicemail. He sighs and drops his phone on his nightstand and rolls over, burrowing himself deeper into his den of fluffy white quilts.
His phone rings just then, and he has half a mind to throw it at the wall. Fuck you, Cass, he wants to say. “Hi,” he breathes.
“Are you okay?” Cassidy asks.
“No,” he whines. “My head is killing me; Sarah came over and said that I have a fever; Marcus said my skin was blotchy, and I threw up twice last night,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Well, if your skin is blotchy, it must be bad,” Cassidy laughs, and Brad smiles.
“It looks worse in front of a camera,” he counters lamely.
“Ah,” Cassidy hums. “Beauty is a fickle thing.”
“Don’t say that,” Brad wails. “Don’t ever say that!”
All he gets in response is laughter so he continues. “Caaaaassidy,” he begs, stretching out the vowels. “Come cuddle with me.”
“Sweetie, I gotta work,” Cassidy laughs, and Brad huffs, pouting the Cheeks pout as Cassidy tells him to hang in there. “I’ll come by as soon as the meeting’s over.”
“Fine,” Brad answers, a little (okay, very) dejectedly.
“Feel better.”
“Thanks,” but Cassidy’s already gone.
He tries to catch some sleep, but the rain is beating hard against his window, pounding in his ears. “Aw, Christ,” Brad seethes as a flash of lightning immediately followed by the roaring thunder resounded throughout his bedroom.
It’s freezing in his room. He wants to turn on the heater, but his muscles ache, and the thought of having to walk down the hall makes him shiver. Or maybe that’s the flu.
He curls up, his cold hands rubbing his legs, trying to create some heat. He’s preoccupied enough that he doesn’t hear his front door open.
“Cheeks,” Cassidy calls from down the hall. “It’s fucking freezing in here! I’m gonna turn on your heater if you don’t mind.”
“Go ahead,” he answers, though he realizes, a few seconds too late, that Cassidy probably can’t hear him through his layers of blankets.
He tries to listen for Cassidy’s movements, but the quilts are too thick, and only when Cassidy lifts the sheets to clamber in, does he even realize that Cassidy’s in the room.
“I thought you had work,” he pouts, though he immediately reaches up to touch Cassidy’s arm.
“I am working,” Cassidy says, surprised. “Taking care of a sick Cheeks is work.”
“But your meeting-”
“Eh,” Cassidy waves him off. “They can live without me for one meeting.”
Brad smiles and is about to answer before a loud crash of thunder rumbles past.
“I hate this fucking thunder,” he mumbles as he presses himself closer to Cassidy’s warm body.
“You love thunderstorms,” Cassidy answers gently, pulling him in.
“Not when they make my head spin.”
Cassidy leans in and brushes his lips against Brad’s forehead. “Aw, sweetheart,” he says sympathetically.
Brad closes his eyes and listens to sound of the rain, matching the quiet thumpthump of Cassidy’s heart.