Laurie vs. The Fever vs. Rorschach
Laurie vs. The Fever vs. Rorschach
PG
AU post-Karnak. Dan/Laurie/Rorschach. Laurie has a fever.
Fill for fever/delirium for hc_bingo.
Laurie's fever serves at least one purpose - it finally, finally makes Rorschach stop acting so vitriolic towards them. He even, on the second day, pokes his head into her room, stalks off, brings Dan back in so he can check on her properly, and leaves them alone, all without muttering about fornication and “making light” of their situation. Granted, he's cranky when he finds her underwear on the floor later, but even the word underwear makes him cranky (Laurie's tested it), so that's not a real surprise.
Dan, predictably, is sweet and attentive, almost cloying, because most of the time Laurie wants to burrow into the massive pile of hotel pillows and never come out. He makes sure she eats, bringing her soup (tomato's the only kind she can keep down - bummer) and bread and, after she'd wheedled at him, a burger that she kept down with sheer will. And fruit. And juice. And gallons of water. And crackers, and those sweet cinnamon hard candies that don't upset her too much until he's brought her four bags of them and she gets a little eager about tasting something other than puke and tomato soup. (There's a lot of food going stale on the bedside table.)
It's on the third day that Rorschach cracks and does something that's actually nice - well, nicer than avoiding her to forestall a fight. Laurie's ambled past Rorschach into the kitchenette, where Dan's decided to keep the (new) thermometer and medicine. She just wants to check her temperature - yesterday was 104.7, this morning 104.2 - and then slink back into bed. Dan's not home; if he was, she might bundle into blankets on the couch and try to be social.
Rorschach gravitates towards the kitchenette and stares at her.
One of Laurie's favorite games, lately, is to stare back - surprisingly enough, who looks away first is about half and half. (Dan always loses, to both of them.) So - naturally - she stares right back, tilting the thermometer at a cocky angle.
After a few seconds, he votes to stare at the wall just behind her right ear. Rorschach - 0. Me - 1. “Don't look very sick,” he says with a slight tensing in his shoulders. “Could look worse.” His fingers curl, loosen, worm their way into his pockets, where thin tinkling sounds commence.
Laurie digests this. “Hmm,” she says around the thermometer. It elects that moment to give her the start of a headache with some high-pitched beeps. 103.4. Wahoo.
When she looks up from the reading, Rorschach is staring at her again, this time with an expectant look that borders on puppy-eyes. It's creepier than his ironed face (flatter than Kansas, ten times as interesting).
“What?” The stuffy nose really adds to her sense of authority, definitely.
He nods at the thermometer.
“Oh - uh,” sniff (classy), “hundred three.” She turns to rinse it off at the sink, and suddenly he's right there, way too close and smelling like tar; he takes her arms the way Dan sometimes does, from behind, and guides her away from the sink. She's too stunned to do anything but let him, and blurt out, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Daniel,” the word rumbling from his chest to her back, “will be very upset to hear you've been out of bed. Need rest, Laurel.” Laurie shudders, and wishes she hadn't. He backs away from her so quickly that she's surprised he doesn't get whiplash.
“Right,” she says, “I...was heading that way?” (Dan's moaned into her ear don't understand and he's just so - and she gets it, right, fixation with the mask and compact body, but she's never - she hates it when guys - and Rorschach's such a creep, and...)
“Well?”
“Cool your jets,” she says, “I'm going.”
When she slips back under the covers, she tries to shake off the heavy warmth down her thighs and all the ways Rorschach's managed to worm under her skin in under ten seconds.
She dozes. Wakes up to heave in the toilet. Not much comes up - but he's there again, in the doorway, ramrod straight and stern enough to be a mythical knight. Or priest. Or serial killer (which he is, she reminds herself). Laurie tries to catch her breath and watches him, wary.
He kneels down, and that's when she notices the glass of water in his hand.
It's cool to the touch.
This time, he follows her back to the bedroom and tries to tuck her in, scowling the whole time. Laurie tries not to laugh.
“Worrying Daniel,” he growls when she gives into a snicker at the careful way he stuffs the covers around her feet. “Getting sick at a time like this - we need to keep moving.”
Laurie rolls her eyes. “I'm so sorry for having a shitty immune system. Jesus. Suck my dick, Rorschach.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Exactly what I would expect from you.”
He leaves before she can work her arms out of the blankets to smack him - fucker really tucked her in tight - must've all been part of his grand plan to get her back for winning the staring contest earlier. Vindictive jerk.
When Dan comes home, she can hear them in the living room - “Worried about Laurel.”
“What? What's wrong?”
“Think she's becoming delusional.”
Whatever Dan's holding (a water bottle, from the sound of it) drops to the floor. “Wh - oh no, what's she -?”
“Thinks she has a dick.” Silence. Longer silence. “For me to suck.” Sii-iilence. “Daniel?”
“That - that was pretty bad, man.”
Laurie, overheated and exhausted, can't help it - she laughs, and laughs.
PG
AU post-Karnak. Dan/Laurie/Rorschach. Laurie has a fever.
Fill for fever/delirium for hc_bingo.
Laurie's fever serves at least one purpose - it finally, finally makes Rorschach stop acting so vitriolic towards them. He even, on the second day, pokes his head into her room, stalks off, brings Dan back in so he can check on her properly, and leaves them alone, all without muttering about fornication and “making light” of their situation. Granted, he's cranky when he finds her underwear on the floor later, but even the word underwear makes him cranky (Laurie's tested it), so that's not a real surprise.
Dan, predictably, is sweet and attentive, almost cloying, because most of the time Laurie wants to burrow into the massive pile of hotel pillows and never come out. He makes sure she eats, bringing her soup (tomato's the only kind she can keep down - bummer) and bread and, after she'd wheedled at him, a burger that she kept down with sheer will. And fruit. And juice. And gallons of water. And crackers, and those sweet cinnamon hard candies that don't upset her too much until he's brought her four bags of them and she gets a little eager about tasting something other than puke and tomato soup. (There's a lot of food going stale on the bedside table.)
It's on the third day that Rorschach cracks and does something that's actually nice - well, nicer than avoiding her to forestall a fight. Laurie's ambled past Rorschach into the kitchenette, where Dan's decided to keep the (new) thermometer and medicine. She just wants to check her temperature - yesterday was 104.7, this morning 104.2 - and then slink back into bed. Dan's not home; if he was, she might bundle into blankets on the couch and try to be social.
Rorschach gravitates towards the kitchenette and stares at her.
One of Laurie's favorite games, lately, is to stare back - surprisingly enough, who looks away first is about half and half. (Dan always loses, to both of them.) So - naturally - she stares right back, tilting the thermometer at a cocky angle.
After a few seconds, he votes to stare at the wall just behind her right ear. Rorschach - 0. Me - 1. “Don't look very sick,” he says with a slight tensing in his shoulders. “Could look worse.” His fingers curl, loosen, worm their way into his pockets, where thin tinkling sounds commence.
Laurie digests this. “Hmm,” she says around the thermometer. It elects that moment to give her the start of a headache with some high-pitched beeps. 103.4. Wahoo.
When she looks up from the reading, Rorschach is staring at her again, this time with an expectant look that borders on puppy-eyes. It's creepier than his ironed face (flatter than Kansas, ten times as interesting).
“What?” The stuffy nose really adds to her sense of authority, definitely.
He nods at the thermometer.
“Oh - uh,” sniff (classy), “hundred three.” She turns to rinse it off at the sink, and suddenly he's right there, way too close and smelling like tar; he takes her arms the way Dan sometimes does, from behind, and guides her away from the sink. She's too stunned to do anything but let him, and blurt out, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Daniel,” the word rumbling from his chest to her back, “will be very upset to hear you've been out of bed. Need rest, Laurel.” Laurie shudders, and wishes she hadn't. He backs away from her so quickly that she's surprised he doesn't get whiplash.
“Right,” she says, “I...was heading that way?” (Dan's moaned into her ear don't understand and he's just so - and she gets it, right, fixation with the mask and compact body, but she's never - she hates it when guys - and Rorschach's such a creep, and...)
“Well?”
“Cool your jets,” she says, “I'm going.”
When she slips back under the covers, she tries to shake off the heavy warmth down her thighs and all the ways Rorschach's managed to worm under her skin in under ten seconds.
She dozes. Wakes up to heave in the toilet. Not much comes up - but he's there again, in the doorway, ramrod straight and stern enough to be a mythical knight. Or priest. Or serial killer (which he is, she reminds herself). Laurie tries to catch her breath and watches him, wary.
He kneels down, and that's when she notices the glass of water in his hand.
It's cool to the touch.
This time, he follows her back to the bedroom and tries to tuck her in, scowling the whole time. Laurie tries not to laugh.
“Worrying Daniel,” he growls when she gives into a snicker at the careful way he stuffs the covers around her feet. “Getting sick at a time like this - we need to keep moving.”
Laurie rolls her eyes. “I'm so sorry for having a shitty immune system. Jesus. Suck my dick, Rorschach.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Exactly what I would expect from you.”
He leaves before she can work her arms out of the blankets to smack him - fucker really tucked her in tight - must've all been part of his grand plan to get her back for winning the staring contest earlier. Vindictive jerk.
When Dan comes home, she can hear them in the living room - “Worried about Laurel.”
“What? What's wrong?”
“Think she's becoming delusional.”
Whatever Dan's holding (a water bottle, from the sound of it) drops to the floor. “Wh - oh no, what's she -?”
“Thinks she has a dick.” Silence. Longer silence. “For me to suck.” Sii-iilence. “Daniel?”
“That - that was pretty bad, man.”
Laurie, overheated and exhausted, can't help it - she laughs, and laughs.