WC Fic: A Cure for What Ails
Title: A Cure for What Ails
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Sickfic
Word Count: ~1,600
Summary: For the prompt “role reversal.”
A/N: This was originally written as a fill in the bracket writing pool at the White Collar Fandom Meet-up this last November, but I never published it. I’ve polished it and made it suitable for framing. Or something.
For Day 7 of my fourth annual Twelve Days of Ficmas Challenge.
----
Elizabeth closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, willing the dizziness she felt to subside just a little, goddammit! She screwed her eyes shut and fought a wave of nausea. A moment later she dragged herself up the stairs, shedding coat, briefcase, clothes along the way. She was almost appropriately attired to take up residence in her bed, if not for the shoe still on her left foot. She burrowed under the comforter with a groan that resolved into a whimper and prayed for a swift death.
----
“Hon?”
Peter regarded the raincoat on the floor of his foyer, puzzled. He bent to pick it up and was about to hang it in the closet when his eyes were drawn to a single shoe lying on its side on the third stair. He picked it up, saw the scarf two steps above that. He followed the trail of his wife’s personal belongings up the stairs and down the hall to their bedroom, where an Elizabeth-shaped lump was to be found under a mountain of covers on the bed.
“El?” He went to the bed and lifted a corner of the comforter back to find the back of a mass of tangled hair scattered across the pillow. “Honey?”
She squirmed until she had turned over onto her back and regarded him with bleary eyes set in a flushed and sweaty face; her hair was plastered across her face and neck in a way that looked really uncomfortable to Peter.
“You sick?” he asked. She nodded. He resisted the impulse to back away. “Stomach flu?” he asked with distaste. She shook her head. “What hurts?”
“My head, my throat,” she began, then swallowed with obvious difficulty.
“Aww, honeeeyy!” he said with what he hoped approximated deep caring but what he suspected sounded like condescension or at least whining. He sat down and palmed her forehead, his hand practically covering her face. “Are you hot?” He had no clue - she seemed hot? But she was under the covers? She nodded under his hand. “What should I do?”
“I’m sick,” she replied, as if that was an answer, and the way she looked at him - like it was, and she expected him to make everything better somehow - kind of did him in.
“Yes,” he said, as if they were in the midst of a different conversation, as if he was agreeing with a point she was making. “Yes.” He got up to leave, realized he still held the bundle of her discarded clothes and things and dumped them onto the chair in the corner.
Yes.
----
Peter stood in the entry to his kitchen and stared at it as if it was a suspect he was about to interrogate: accusingly and with not a little anger.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
Were you supposed to feed a cold? Starve a fever? Buy it a Corvette - what?
Tea - El liked tea, right? Tea was for sick people!
He crossed over to the stove and grabbed up the kettle with more confidence than the gesture required, filled it from the tap, and set it on the flame. Next, he went over to the cabinet where El kept the tea and whipped its door open. “What the -?” There were, conservatively speaking, perhaps three dozen boxes, tins, and bags filled with tea. Herb tea. Black tea. Green tea. White tea. Earl Grey. Mrs. Earl Grey. Happy Sleepy Funbags tea. His mind boggled. “Whatever happened to friggin’ Lipton’s?” he muttered and chose one at random.
When the kettle whistled, he dropped three bags into one of the china pots El favored and filled it to the top with scalding water. When he added the lid, it overflowed a bit on the counter, so he stood back to avoid getting burned. He found a tray and a mug and set them on the counter, reached for the teapot and promptly pulled his hand back - it was hot as bejeezus. He found a towel and fumbled to move the pot onto the tray. Then he found the sugar bowl and a spoon and lifted the tray, about to head up the stairs, when he remembered that El took milk in her tea. He sidled up to the fridge, balancing the tray with a hand beneath it, then grabbed a carton of milk and set it on the tray. And promptly dropped it all to the floor with a crash.
“Hon?!” Elizabeth’s voice came from up the stairs.
“No problems here!” he called back, then started cursing under his breath as he started to clean up the mess. Ten minutes later, with just a mug in his hands, he headed up the stairs.
“Brought you some tea,” he said, setting it down gently on the bedside table and smiling at her proudly.
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think I want any.” She closed her eyes, looking miserable.
“Oh.” He couldn’t help but be disappointed - he thought he’d gotten it right. “Um.” He returned downstairs.
----
Soup. Soup was for sick people.
Peter had fond memories floating in his head of the Campbell’s Chicken and Stars his mother would bring him when he was sick as a kid. She’d pour it into a mug, bring it to him and feed him, blowing on the spoonfuls until it had cooled down enough that he could just drink out of the mug.
He could do that!
He went to the pantry to look for a can, and found - dried beans, pasta, flour, sugar, baking ingredients, spices, oatmeal, some condiments, dried fruit, nuts - everything a well-stocked pantry ought to have.
“Where’s all the food?” he said aloud.
It seemed all there was to be found were the ingredients to make things, and not the actual things themselves. He sighed.
Soup. Was what? Chicken. And noodles. And vegetables. Carrots, onions, celery. He went to the fridge and he found these things. He could do this.
He grabbed a pot and set it on the stove, chopped vegetables (were you supposed to peel them? They looked OK this way - rustic ), and dropped them in. Went back to the pantry to find noodles and almost fist-pumped the air when he found a box of what turned out to be broth, and went back to the stove. He opened the broth and poured it in with the veggies, followed by a few handfuls of some macaroni, and stirred it around. It seemed a bit anemic, so he went and chopped up the rest of the carrots in the bag he’d found, and brought it all to a boil.
“That smells really good,” he thought proudly an hour later when he returned to the kitchen and removed the lid from the pot. He spooned some of it into a mug and frowned. It didn’t quite look like what was in his mind, but all the carrots were a nice color, and it was hot. He took it upstairs.
“Soup, Hon?” he offered, and sat down on the bed beside her.
She pushed herself to a sitting position against the pillows, looked up at him with a slight smile. “You made soup?”
He smiled proudly and stirred it with the spoon. It looked weird - the noodles seemed to have fallen apart. A lot. More like exploded, really. But: carrots. He made sure there were some on the spoon and then he blew on it for a minute before bringing it carefully to El’s lips.
She went to sip gently at the bowl of the spoon, but Peter just kind of shoved it into her mouth so none of it would land on the bed. He smiled at her. “Good?”
“It’s, um.” She had a quizzical look on her face. “Did you use any salt?”
“Salt? Oh. No.”
“It’s good, hon. Guess I’m not so hungry though. I feel really crappy.”
“Um.”
----
Peter stood in front of the medicine cabinet and wondered which of the OTC remedies would make Elizabeth feel better. TheraFlu. Tylenol. Tylenol Cold. Tylenol Cold and Sinus. Robitussin D. Robitussin DM. NyQuil. DayQuil. Vitamin C. All of it seemed pretty OK. He grabbed them all.
----
“Hon?” El said, dubiously eying the swirling concoction that Peter had brought her in one of the water glasses from the bathroom. “What… is it?” It was certainly colorful. “Is it fizzing?”
“Yeah - the Alka Seltzer really added something, huh?”
“It’s… something.”
“You don’t want it?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Well, um. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because I do, but I’m afraid it might kill me.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry, El,” he said, dejected. “You’re sick, and I wanted to make you feel better - like you do for me all the time, and - well, I totally failed. First I dropped the tea all over the floor, then the soup was horrible, and -” He sighed and plopped himself onto the bed beside her. “I suck at this.”
Despite feeling like absolute hell, she felt sorry for him. “Aww, Peter, it’s OK.”
“No, it’s not. You’re always so good at this, and I’m just… not.”
“No, honey, you’re not. But it’s OK. I just wanted you to take care of me, and you did.”
“I boiled the soup for an hour.”
“It’s the thought that counts. Really, all I wanted was for you to hold me.”
He looked at her, hopeful. “Really? That’ll make you feel better?”
Not as good as a well-made cup of tea but, as he climbed into the bed with her and slid his arms around her, she thought it was a pretty damn good substitute.
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Peter/Elizabeth
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Sickfic
Word Count: ~1,600
Summary: For the prompt “role reversal.”
A/N: This was originally written as a fill in the bracket writing pool at the White Collar Fandom Meet-up this last November, but I never published it. I’ve polished it and made it suitable for framing. Or something.
For Day 7 of my fourth annual Twelve Days of Ficmas Challenge.
----
Elizabeth closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, willing the dizziness she felt to subside just a little, goddammit! She screwed her eyes shut and fought a wave of nausea. A moment later she dragged herself up the stairs, shedding coat, briefcase, clothes along the way. She was almost appropriately attired to take up residence in her bed, if not for the shoe still on her left foot. She burrowed under the comforter with a groan that resolved into a whimper and prayed for a swift death.
----
“Hon?”
Peter regarded the raincoat on the floor of his foyer, puzzled. He bent to pick it up and was about to hang it in the closet when his eyes were drawn to a single shoe lying on its side on the third stair. He picked it up, saw the scarf two steps above that. He followed the trail of his wife’s personal belongings up the stairs and down the hall to their bedroom, where an Elizabeth-shaped lump was to be found under a mountain of covers on the bed.
“El?” He went to the bed and lifted a corner of the comforter back to find the back of a mass of tangled hair scattered across the pillow. “Honey?”
She squirmed until she had turned over onto her back and regarded him with bleary eyes set in a flushed and sweaty face; her hair was plastered across her face and neck in a way that looked really uncomfortable to Peter.
“You sick?” he asked. She nodded. He resisted the impulse to back away. “Stomach flu?” he asked with distaste. She shook her head. “What hurts?”
“My head, my throat,” she began, then swallowed with obvious difficulty.
“Aww, honeeeyy!” he said with what he hoped approximated deep caring but what he suspected sounded like condescension or at least whining. He sat down and palmed her forehead, his hand practically covering her face. “Are you hot?” He had no clue - she seemed hot? But she was under the covers? She nodded under his hand. “What should I do?”
“I’m sick,” she replied, as if that was an answer, and the way she looked at him - like it was, and she expected him to make everything better somehow - kind of did him in.
“Yes,” he said, as if they were in the midst of a different conversation, as if he was agreeing with a point she was making. “Yes.” He got up to leave, realized he still held the bundle of her discarded clothes and things and dumped them onto the chair in the corner.
Yes.
----
Peter stood in the entry to his kitchen and stared at it as if it was a suspect he was about to interrogate: accusingly and with not a little anger.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
Were you supposed to feed a cold? Starve a fever? Buy it a Corvette - what?
Tea - El liked tea, right? Tea was for sick people!
He crossed over to the stove and grabbed up the kettle with more confidence than the gesture required, filled it from the tap, and set it on the flame. Next, he went over to the cabinet where El kept the tea and whipped its door open. “What the -?” There were, conservatively speaking, perhaps three dozen boxes, tins, and bags filled with tea. Herb tea. Black tea. Green tea. White tea. Earl Grey. Mrs. Earl Grey. Happy Sleepy Funbags tea. His mind boggled. “Whatever happened to friggin’ Lipton’s?” he muttered and chose one at random.
When the kettle whistled, he dropped three bags into one of the china pots El favored and filled it to the top with scalding water. When he added the lid, it overflowed a bit on the counter, so he stood back to avoid getting burned. He found a tray and a mug and set them on the counter, reached for the teapot and promptly pulled his hand back - it was hot as bejeezus. He found a towel and fumbled to move the pot onto the tray. Then he found the sugar bowl and a spoon and lifted the tray, about to head up the stairs, when he remembered that El took milk in her tea. He sidled up to the fridge, balancing the tray with a hand beneath it, then grabbed a carton of milk and set it on the tray. And promptly dropped it all to the floor with a crash.
“Hon?!” Elizabeth’s voice came from up the stairs.
“No problems here!” he called back, then started cursing under his breath as he started to clean up the mess. Ten minutes later, with just a mug in his hands, he headed up the stairs.
“Brought you some tea,” he said, setting it down gently on the bedside table and smiling at her proudly.
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think I want any.” She closed her eyes, looking miserable.
“Oh.” He couldn’t help but be disappointed - he thought he’d gotten it right. “Um.” He returned downstairs.
----
Soup. Soup was for sick people.
Peter had fond memories floating in his head of the Campbell’s Chicken and Stars his mother would bring him when he was sick as a kid. She’d pour it into a mug, bring it to him and feed him, blowing on the spoonfuls until it had cooled down enough that he could just drink out of the mug.
He could do that!
He went to the pantry to look for a can, and found - dried beans, pasta, flour, sugar, baking ingredients, spices, oatmeal, some condiments, dried fruit, nuts - everything a well-stocked pantry ought to have.
“Where’s all the food?” he said aloud.
It seemed all there was to be found were the ingredients to make things, and not the actual things themselves. He sighed.
Soup. Was what? Chicken. And noodles. And vegetables. Carrots, onions, celery. He went to the fridge and he found these things. He could do this.
He grabbed a pot and set it on the stove, chopped vegetables (were you supposed to peel them? They looked OK this way - rustic ), and dropped them in. Went back to the pantry to find noodles and almost fist-pumped the air when he found a box of what turned out to be broth, and went back to the stove. He opened the broth and poured it in with the veggies, followed by a few handfuls of some macaroni, and stirred it around. It seemed a bit anemic, so he went and chopped up the rest of the carrots in the bag he’d found, and brought it all to a boil.
“That smells really good,” he thought proudly an hour later when he returned to the kitchen and removed the lid from the pot. He spooned some of it into a mug and frowned. It didn’t quite look like what was in his mind, but all the carrots were a nice color, and it was hot. He took it upstairs.
“Soup, Hon?” he offered, and sat down on the bed beside her.
She pushed herself to a sitting position against the pillows, looked up at him with a slight smile. “You made soup?”
He smiled proudly and stirred it with the spoon. It looked weird - the noodles seemed to have fallen apart. A lot. More like exploded, really. But: carrots. He made sure there were some on the spoon and then he blew on it for a minute before bringing it carefully to El’s lips.
She went to sip gently at the bowl of the spoon, but Peter just kind of shoved it into her mouth so none of it would land on the bed. He smiled at her. “Good?”
“It’s, um.” She had a quizzical look on her face. “Did you use any salt?”
“Salt? Oh. No.”
“It’s good, hon. Guess I’m not so hungry though. I feel really crappy.”
“Um.”
----
Peter stood in front of the medicine cabinet and wondered which of the OTC remedies would make Elizabeth feel better. TheraFlu. Tylenol. Tylenol Cold. Tylenol Cold and Sinus. Robitussin D. Robitussin DM. NyQuil. DayQuil. Vitamin C. All of it seemed pretty OK. He grabbed them all.
----
“Hon?” El said, dubiously eying the swirling concoction that Peter had brought her in one of the water glasses from the bathroom. “What… is it?” It was certainly colorful. “Is it fizzing?”
“Yeah - the Alka Seltzer really added something, huh?”
“It’s… something.”
“You don’t want it?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Well, um. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, because I do, but I’m afraid it might kill me.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry, El,” he said, dejected. “You’re sick, and I wanted to make you feel better - like you do for me all the time, and - well, I totally failed. First I dropped the tea all over the floor, then the soup was horrible, and -” He sighed and plopped himself onto the bed beside her. “I suck at this.”
Despite feeling like absolute hell, she felt sorry for him. “Aww, Peter, it’s OK.”
“No, it’s not. You’re always so good at this, and I’m just… not.”
“No, honey, you’re not. But it’s OK. I just wanted you to take care of me, and you did.”
“I boiled the soup for an hour.”
“It’s the thought that counts. Really, all I wanted was for you to hold me.”
He looked at her, hopeful. “Really? That’ll make you feel better?”
Not as good as a well-made cup of tea but, as he climbed into the bed with her and slid his arms around her, she thought it was a pretty damn good substitute.
----
Thank you for your time.