#sicktember day twenty-five | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

revelationschapter6 · 9 months

Text

cinnamon and myrrh

Events: Sicktember, Whumptember, Bad Things Happen Bingo

Prompts:

Desperate measures

Head lolling

Coughing fit

Preventative Measures (Not taken)

Side effects/Adverse reaction

Uncooperative Patient

Confused

Disoriented

Hurts to Breathe

Warnings:

implications of depression

This fill is written as a one-shot of my original story, Saudade. You can find my info page for Saudade here.

What context you need to read this is:

In Saudade, the Archangel Raphael Fell during the Rebellion. It was a misunderstanding that spiraled out of control, and he was thrown out by four angels while his partner, the Power Camael, tried to help him.

The angels who didn't Fall were made to forget those who did. They don't remember they ever knew them. As far as they know, all the Fallen were on the fringes of Heaven's society. If they asked around, they might go, "Wait, no one knew a Fallen?" But they Don't Ask Questions.

Raphael worked to gain Camael's trust again, and eventually won it. Camael learned he did, in fact, know Raphael before the Fall by regaining a memory, and convinced Raphael's siblings to hear him out. Now they're trying to figure out WTF to do.

Who, in their right mind, burns myrrh for funsies? Humans, apparently. And in the middle of the holiday season no less, so the smell of it is covered up by the reek of all that damn cinnamon. Raphael really should have learned by now. Whumptember: Desperate measures, head lolling Sicktember: Coughing fit, Preventative Measures (Not Taken), Side Effects/Adverse Reaction, Uncooperative Patient, Confused, Disoriented Bad Things Happen Bingo: hurts to breathe

can be read on AO3 or below the cut

Raphael watched the little blurs that were the light-up battery-powered fish in his fish tank.

When he’d moved into this apartment, he’d thought about getting a cat. But they had such short lifespans compared to his. It just wasn’t worth getting attached. Dogs were the same. Rodents were even worse. It felt like they barely took a breath before dying. It was nearly impossible to find an apartment that would allow a bird, though even they didn’t live terribly long in the span of his life, and he hated turtles.

A hellish animal might have been an option, but he didn’t like any of them. Hellcats, with their too many tails, disturbed him greatly and brought to mind Kitsune, who he didn’t want to think of as he cleaned a litter box. (Their litter boxes had a nasty habit of bursting into flames, besides.) Hellhounds came in every shape and breed of dog, but being around Lilith’s was enough. He didn’t have nearly enough water to keep an ahuizotl, and he already had plenty of nightmares without inviting in a Pesanta.

So, finally, he’d bought a fish tank and some light-up, battery-powered fake fish and been quite happy with them.

Through the poorly insulated walls of his apartment, he could make out general merriment. Carolers on the street, the buzz of countless lights, cheerful voices. Could smell pine from pine trees, burning gingerbread from a few doors down, and tried not to cough at the thickness of cinnamon in the air. It had been strong for days, no matter where he went. Cinnamon brooms lingered on his neighbors’ doorsteps, and it seemed every shop he passed was cluttered with them.

He’d never liked Christmas, not really. Though the Giant Lantern Festival was beautiful, he’d admit that, and he always had fun trying to burn the Gävle Goat. Any Fallen loved Krampusnacht, none more so than Krampus himself. But Christmas was a time for those with friends and family. He might have called Maalik a friend once, but he was long dead. Lilith and Lethe, perhaps, but they were busy doing their own things, and they saw each other only every few decades, besides. He still wasn’t sure if he could call Samyaza a friend.

And he certainly had no family.

He had Camael back, somewhat. But Camael, though he knew now, didn’t remember, surely wasn’t willing to spend a holiday with him. And Gabriel and Michael still looked half-ready to run him through if he sneezed wrong, though they knew too.

So he hadn’t even bothered to ask.

Raphael sighed, trying to tune out the music his neighbors were listening to: the one above him was listening to some caterwauling cover of All I Want for Christmas is You, the one below him Last Christmas, to the right a pop cover of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (why?), and to the left Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer (again, why?). He could make out the neighbors further down the hall, but it all clashed together into raucous noise.

He rolled over, stretching out on his bed. It smelled far better than the cloying cinnamon. Though lingering sulfur and rain-dampened dirt weren’t exactly appealing either.

It wasn’t Christmas Day or Eve. At least, he didn’t think so.

He couldn’t hear wrapping paper tearing—well, that was a lie. The gender-optional tenant three doors down was wrapping gifts it sounded like—or smell ham or turkey or baking cookies.

Then again, he’d slept for quite a while, so he couldn’t be certain. He’d only gotten up long enough to duck into the corner store and wolf down the taquitos whose wrappers lay crumpled on his nightstand.

Raphael clutched his pillow, curling up. Hell, but he was tired. He’d slept the better part of the last two days, and still, he was exhausted.

So what was the harm in sleeping? It wasn’t as if he’d miss anything.

His phone rang, and he grumbled. Blearily, he thought that he needed to take it into the store to get it looked at because the voice announcing the caller was so muffled that he couldn’t make out what it said. Raphael reached for it, fumbling, but it was out of his reach, and he was still so tired.

If it was important, whoever it was could leave a voicemail.

Someone banged on his door, and he groaned. Did they have to be so loud? He could hear the door rattling in the frame. It was probably someone looking for the man down the hall. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had someone knock on his door by mistake, so he didn’t feel sorry that he didn’t even open his eyes.

There were voices, and he felt he should wake up. Because sleeping while someone was near him was never a good thing, barring a few people. And those weren’t Lethe or Lilith’s voices. He could tell. But his bed was so warm, the blankets so soft and comfortable, so surely he could sleep a few minutes more?

Besides, those voices felt safe. What was the harm?

Hands—cold hands, familiar, rough hands, though who they belonged to escaped him at the moment—grabbed and shook him. He wanted to tell them to let him sleep—even with their hands on him, he felt leaden—but his voice wilted and died in his throat before he could make a sound.

The voice called his name again, and two more hands, rougher and larger, joined the first.

His name was called again, this time by a voice deeper than the one before, and the hands became so rough that his head rolled on his pillow. It was irritating, and he tried again to tell them to leave him be. But his voice died, and his eyelids were so heavy that he couldn’t even glare at them to go away. His breath hitched, as sluggish as the rest of him, and struggled in his throat.

Raphael felt that should have worried him, but he was too comfortable and tired to care.

The hands went away, and he was grateful. Now, surely they’d leave him alone? Whatever they needed couldn’t be that important. It could wait.

Surely, they’d finally let him sleep.

A pair of hands slid under him, separating his head from his pillow and awkwardly gripping the underside of his knees. He shivered as he was torn away from the warmth of his blankets, the cold biting into him worse than the blizzards of Cocytus. A complaint started, then died, in his throat. His head lolled back, his neck arched painfully, and while one arm had been scooped up so it rested on his stomach, the other dangled uncomfortably.

The person carrying him moved jerkily, jolting him violently, even as they rubbed their thumbs along his skin as if to try to warm him. They came to an abrupt stop, and he tried to open his eyes. Some part of him was alarmed when he couldn’t get them to respond, but he was too tired to get anxious.

One hand came up to cradle the back of his head as he was made to stand. Well, stand by the faintest gasp of the word. If it wasn’t for the hand, or the body he was propped against, he surely would have collapsed. His feet tingled differently than usual, more numb than throbbing or sensitive. Even when he tried to make them, his knees wouldn’t support his weight. The person behind him, a sturdy wall, held him carefully upright. Raphael felt he should recognize them, if not from everything else than from their height, his head coming up to their chest from the feel of it as it lolled on his irritatingly unresponsive neck.

The first, smaller pair of hands, fingers slimmer than the ones holding him, tugged off his sweats, boxers, and nightshirt. Some part of him felt he should cover himself, like there was something he needed to hide, that he despised, tried to never let anyone see, and was forgetting.

But that would mean moving, which he didn’t think he could do even if he tried. His arms were so heavy, and was it really so bad if they saw it?

He lost time.

And then he was scalding, dragged beneath a spray of water. He gasped through a barely open mouth, his breath rasping loudly in his throat, then started to cough violently.

Were they trying to drown him?

A heave ran through him as he coughed, desperate for breath he didn’t actually need, feeling as though he were fighting to breathe through wet cloth. One of the hands, the one with the thicker fingers, caught his chin and squeezed the joints of his jaw. He tried to jerk back and felt like he was back in Boston, struggling to wade through molasses. His body wouldn’t listen to him, every moment slow and faltering, a twitch of a movement if he managed to move at all.

"Shit, he’s covered in it."

Raphael retched as a wet finger pressed down on his tongue, sweeping along his throat. It was a horrible feeling, but when the finger drew out, he could finally breathe. He coughed harshly, gulping air down greedily.

His fingers twitched, and the hand on the back of his head tightened in his hair to keep him from doubling over. He could taste rotten sulfur, his throat stinging as he struggled to get his coughing under control. There wasn’t an inch of his skin that hadn’t begun to tingle unpleasantly, bordering on a faint burn.

The smaller set of hands left his skin, replaced a moment later by a washcloth. The tingling quickly built to a burn, and as energy began to return to his limbs, he struggled weakly. Being pinned had never resulted in anything good, and slowly awareness was filtering to him; he shouldn’t be so confused and so tired; he should have been wide awake long before they’d made it into his apartment. He’d never known the touch of holy water, but having water flow over his body just before he began to burn did not bode well.

The arms tightened around him, and a familiar voice grunted as he managed to brace one foot on the slippery tile and drive the heel of the other into the shin of the person behind him.

"Stop fighting us, dammit!"

Wait—he did know that voice. Now that it didn’t sound so far away, so muffled, he did know that voice. And those hands felt familiar, as did the body behind him. And now, with the insulated walls of the shower between him and that awful, seeping cinnamon scent, he could make out the strong bite of petrichor.

He forced his eyes open, though they were very reluctant. His vision swam, eyes stinging, and they’d only open a slit. But even through a film of silver tears, he’d know that angel anywhere. She was too close for him to make out her features, but even darkened and flattened to her scalp by water, that red hair was unmistakeable.

"M’ch’l?" His tongue was slow, heavy, and unresponsive in his mouth. Just that word, if you could call it a word, made him cough again, tearing at his throat. He whimpered, and the angel behind him held him up when the force of it tried to bend him over. Ichor sprayed, foul and thick, across his tongue. Before he could do anything, Camael reached up and swiped his fingers across his tongue and throat. Raphael retched, but strangely, his throat hurt far less.

"Shut up," she snapped as he panted, stooping and running the washcloth down his legs.

"You’re a real idiot, you know," she said as she straightened.

"Wh-?" He cleared his throat, trying to get his voice to obey him. His voice sounded ridiculous, slurring and rough. "Why?"

Finally, he got his legs to support him, though they shook violently. Still, when Camael pushed him forward and Michael pulled him towards her, he went easily. He slumped, head resting on her shoulder, letting her take most of his weight. Behind him, Camael wiped him down with quick, rough movements. His skin burned, too sensitive, under the touch of the rag, and he whined as his hands and feet began to sting. He hadn’t even realized how numb they’d gone, but now that they felt as if they were being lanced with needles, he wished they’d go back to being numb.

Camael knelt, pushing him so he put more of his weight on Michael, and pulled up his foot. He did cry out, then. They were always either sensitive or numb, but the feel of the rag was agony. Then he began to cough again, struggling against the burn in his chest. Each small gasp of breath he managed to get only fueled the burn, and he sobbed.

"Sorry, sorry," Camael muttered, hurrying to finish. The other foot hurt just as badly, if not more, and it was only because Michael braced herself that they weren’t both taken to the ground when his leg gave out.

"Close your eyes," Camael said, and then Michael guided him to stand upright and bend over. He wheezed, beginning to cough again, wrinkling his nose at the foul taste of sulfur. When the stream of water was aimed at his hair, he flinched, so Michael brought one hand up to cover his eyes. Hands ran roughly through his hair, tugging at tangles, Camael murmuring apologies every time he tugged roughly at his scalp.

"Is that all of it?" Camael asked, helping him to stand upright. He wavered, blinking blearily at Michael as he struggled to catch his breath.

The burning was starting up again in his throat, and he managed to say "All of-" before it irritated his throat so badly that he started to cough again. When the force of it, pain shooting through his upper back, threatened to take him to the ground, Camael held him upright. Heat filled his mouth, and he tasted sulfur as the water shut off.

"Don’t let him get any on his skin," Camael said as Michael pressed the cloth to his mouth.

"I know," she scowled. "Next time he can catch his breath, hold his head up and his mouth open."

It felt like ages as he coughed. His throat and chest burned, and tears trickled down his face. Camael slid one hand up to rest over his racing heart, Michael replacing his grip on Raphael’s arm with her own.

Finally, he was able to take a breath. It wasn’t much, but for a moment, he could stop coughing. His breath whistled in his throat, an awful sound that set his teeth on edge. Camael grabbed his jaw, making him tilt his head back, then, as gently as he could, squeezed the joints of his jaw.

Raphael coughed, jerking awkwardly at the angle his throat was forced to. He didn’t struggle as Camael lowered him, and Michael stood on the tips of her toes. She raised her hand, and Raphael’s instincts screamed as divinity spiked strongly in the air. Gold-tinged smoke trickled from his mouth as Michael pinched the air, then pulled back. There was an awful tugging feeling in his chest before the burning flared. He struggled against Camael’s pinning grip, but as the agonizing burn rose through his throat, his chest stopped hurting.

With a gasp, he began to gulp down air. Each breath came easier than the last, the burn moving to his tongue, then gone completely. Camael loosened his grip, letting him slump against him as he gasped for breath. Camael was saying something. He could tell by the vibrations of his chest against his back, and maybe Michael was, too. But his heart raced loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t hear anything else. He twisted, spitting ichor into the drain.

Michael stepped out of the shower, and scooping Raphael up, Camael followed.

Please tell me I’m not naked.

Michael looked away as she grabbed a towel. "Can you stand?"

He cleared his throat, basking in being able to breathe. "Y-yeah," he said, though he wasn’t really sure. Camael carefully set him down, making sure he could take his own weight before releasing him.

Raphael hadn’t known this Camael could be so gentle or kind. He wished he’d been aware enough to enjoy it.

Hands shaking, he took the towel she offered. His head was still a bit foggy, the world moving slowly around him, but now he could feel the alarm he should have felt before creeping up on him.

"How dumb are you?" Michael asked as he toweled himself dry before he could ask what the hell had happened. It was only as he carefully picked up a foot to towel it dry, leaning into Camael’s supporting hand, seeing the discolored flesh that went up nearly to his knee, that his heart dropped into his stomach.

His glamors.

He wasn’t wearing his glamors.

They’d have seen the discolorations for sure, and they certainly would have felt them. It was a miracle he hadn’t, in his daze, brought out his spines.

The thought made him feel ill.

And–his eyes. His eyes didn’t have the reassuring, faint warmth of his glamor, the one he applied without thought the moment he woke. That glamor—they'd have seen his eyes; they’d have seen those monstrous eyes. How had Michael stomached seeing them?

He took deep breaths, reveling in them, and answered her. "I don’t know... I don’t even know what happened." Frantically, he tried to call up the glamor. It was child’s play—something he could do when bleeding and half-dead. But his power, usually burning and riotous, was barely more than a smolder in his chest. His eyes remained unchanged.

"Myrrh," she said as she walked out of the bathroom, speaking over her shoulder as he tied the towel around his waist. Camael helped him follow on shaky legs. "You got yourself covered from head to toe in myrrh." When he walked into the rest of the apartment, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The entire place smelled like ozone, divinity sparking along his skin.

Michael rummaged through his dresser, pulling out a shirt and tossing it to him once he’d sat on the edge (well, his bed was round, so it didn’t have edges) of his bed. It had been stripped down to the mattress, and the rough mattress itched his sensitive skin.

"And inhaled it," Camael added as he pulled the shirt on. He sounded pissed, and Raphael cringed. "How the hell did you manage that?"

"I didn’t mean to," Raphael protested as he wriggled awkwardly into a pair of shorts that landed in his lap. He mourned his boxers but would rather that Michael didn’t go into his underwear drawer. Remembering the days of robes and little else, then the days of kaunakes, which covered even less, he wondered when he’d become so prudish. What Fallen would mean to inhale myrrh? "Who burns myrrh anymore?"

Michael wasn’t far enough away for him to make out her expression, but he was fairly certain she was looking to Heaven for strength.

He didn’t need to look to know that Camael was rolling his eyes. "I’m serious," Raphael said. "I haven’t been able to smell anything but cinnamon for weeks. You think I’d’ve stuck around if I smelled myrrh?"

Of all the things hellish beings were weak to—blessed objects, certain sacred symbols and objects, holy water, purified salt, consecrated ground, certain sigils and runes, among other things—Raphael found myrrh the most insidious. Sacred symbols and objects you could avoid; you had to touch them, usually, to be harmed by them. Pick them up or have them thrown at you. They were only dangerous if they touched bare skin. Any hellish being knew well what those tended to be. Blessed objects were more dangerous; anything could be blessed. Sacred symbols and objects counted among blessed objects, like crosses, ushabti, and holy books. But it was entirely possible to rummage through a pile of clothing and find a blessed shirt. Sigils and runes had to be carved or painted, and were far less reliable. They were so finicky that a shaky hand or a shed eyelash in the wrong spot could ruin the entire thing. They were usually best at keeping hellish beings out, or he’d have considered them much worse. But if someone knew what they were doing, they could make the barrier far more dangerous, even lethal. The ones he’d painted around his cave served as an electric fence, although he’d seen an imp fried to ash when it insisted on continuing to try to come in. Once, though, he’d seen a demon walk over an intricate rune set, unaware, and be instantly and mercilessly erased from existence.

Consecrated ground, well. Raphael, personally, hated consecrated ground after spending years recovering from a run-in with it. But provided you weren’t him and weren’t foolish with it, it wasn’t too much of a danger. Consecrated ground was almost always a holy building, religious or spiritual retreat, sacred grove, or sacred site. So long as you avoided those, you were just fine. That wasn’t a hard rule—he was still deeply confused by a six-inch-by-six-inch patch he’d found deep in Baikunthapur Forest—but it was a safe one to live by. And, if you were unlucky enough to find some random patch, you just had to step off of it.

It was only when you stayed standing on it that it started to eat away at your being.

Purified salt, unless consumed, was only really useful for making a salt circle. If it touched the skin, it acted as a bit of an irritant, but when consumed in large amounts, it became an anticoagulant. ‘Large amounts’ being the key word; it diluted in drinks, and any amounts that would be dangerous to a hellish being made food noticeably salty. And holy water—well, any self-respecting hellish being feared holy water, especially with people carrying it around now. You never knew how pure it would be, whether it was just tap water with a prayer said over it by some human or water properly blessed by an angel. The former, a Fallen or demon would have to be dunked in or guzzle to be killed by, and it would be a long, drawn-out, preventable death. Otherwise, it hurt like hot oil.

Not pleasant, but better than the latter. The latter was like acid; a few drops would eat away at your skin, but any significant amount was liable to outright dissolve you away.

Myrrh, though. In its natural state, it was harmless. He could hold it with his bare hands if he wanted to. But when burned, which humans had taken to doing, it became smoke. And it was the smoke that was so dangerous. That it had such a strong, distinct scent meant it was one of the easier dangers to avoid. Still, if, somehow, you breathed it—perhaps being a new demon, or a Fallen with little experience of Creation—it settled in your lungs, clinging to your throat. Often, it coated your skin as well, if you were unlucky enough to be too close. It ate away at you slowly, siphoning away your power. This made you tired, too dazed to register that something was wrong. If you fell asleep, you never woke up again.

Raphael remembered how groggy he’d felt, how tired and listless, so certain that it would be no harm at all just to go back to sleep. How he hadn’t cared though there’d been hands on him, strangers (or so they’d seemed at the time) crowded around him while he was vulnerable. If that had happened in Hell...

He shivered.

Michael had been talking, and he quickly scrubbed his hair dry, trying to pretend he’d been listening.

"–lucky we found you when we did!"

"I know," he said. There were so many ways he was lucky, as much as he sometimes thought himself otherwise. When it mattered, he was damn lucky.

"Really," Camael said behind him, his voice soft. "You were almost dead, Raphael. If we had waited a few hours–"

Raphael was startled when Camael’s voice hitched. And, he realized, Michael’s had sounded decidedly rattled. They cared. He barely managed to keep from smiling, as inappropriate as that would be. They still didn’t remember him. Camael hadn’t told him what he’d seen, but he’d seen a memory, or more than one. Enough to know he had known him once. That, for all these years, Raphael hadn’t been lying. He didn’t know the depth of their relationship, but that was fine. Gabriel and Michael, through Camael, had come to accept that they’d known him as well.

It was hard to deny, especially once he showed them their feathers on his necklace and that his were on their jewelry. He couldn’t fake the feathers on his necklace. They shed feathers, sure. But the feathers on his necklace sparked with their divinity—the remnants of when they’d shrunk them, solidifying them so they wouldn’t be ruined in his day-to-day. There wasn’t any of his foul power on them.

Right, his power. It was a bit of a struggle, but after a moment, he managed to pull a glamor over his eyes. He’d done his best not to look them in the eye, but they’d certainly noticed something was off, even if they’d been distracted when they’d seen it.

How they hadn’t realized they had his feathers—well, he had his suspicions. They’d worn them since before Creation, and that was a very long time not to question the seemingly random feathers they shared. Then again, there were so many things that didn’t make sense that no one in Heaven, it seemed, had questioned.

His necklace-! He reached for his throat, fumbling where the cold chain always was. He’d only taken it off once since they’d given it to him, when he’d handed it to Michael to prove he really did have their feathers. But his neck was bare, and, to his horror, so was his wrist. Camael’s bracelet was gone, too.

"Here." Michael’s voice was undeniably strangled. When he looked at her, he sighed in relief. A little smear of gold and what looked to be a miniscule streak of the same with three white blobs dangling from it hung from her hand. They reeked of ozone, and divinity brushed against his skin when he took them.

"We-"

"We?"

"Michael banished your bedding. It had myrrh all over it." Raphael had liked that bedding. "Your clothes too. She cleaned everything. We didn’t want to risk missing some."

"When did you manage to do that?" He gaped at Michael. Everything between falling asleep and Camael washing his hair was blurry, with massive blank spots. Still, he was fairly certain there hadn’t been a moment when she wasn’t there.

Camael took the clasp he’d been struggling with, ignoring his startled flinch, and fastened his necklace for him. Feeling was still coming back to his extremities, and he felt rather fumbly.

"Right after I took off your clothes," she said plainly. Raphael was sure he turned an impressive silver as he remembered her stripping him under the water, Camael holding up his dead weight. She was his sister, but still. He’d have been just as embarrassed if it were Gabriel. Hell, Camael being there was almost as embarrassing.

…wow, he really had become a prude.

"I did it all at the same time. It’s not that hard if you’re doing all the room at once. Though, uh," she sounded sheepish. He remembered the way she’d avert her eyes when embarrassed, dark skin taking on a twinkling gold glint. "I might have been a bit overzealous. Some of those lights went out… and I might have vanished some of your towels."

That did not surprise him. You didn’t have to put much thought into using power—or divinity, as the case might be—but the less you focused, the more mistakes it might make or the more liberties it might take. If she’d thought ‘bedding and clothing’ it might have included ‘fabrics’ in that, and he should feel lucky he had any clothing or towels left at all. Hell, if she’d been rushing and had intentions such as ‘purify everything’, he was lucky he had anything left; such broad intentions could easily have ‘purified’ his apartment by emptying it.

He laughed. It felt good to laugh, to enjoy being able to breathe without that awful burn. "Don’t, don’t worry about it. Those were shit towels."

Forgetting himself, used to only letting Lilith and Lethe at his back, he reclined back against Camael. Camael stiffened against him, and he went rigid. Then, slowly, Camael relaxed.

Michael moved to sit next to him, sighing loudly.

"You have to be more careful," she said, sounding her age. Not the one her physical body appeared, but how old she truly was.

"I usually am." Sometimes. With some things. He was still alive, wasn’t he? And in (mostly) one piece.

Camael snorted.

"I avoid myrrh, I promise. We all do." He winced. Usually, he did all he could to keep from mentioning Hell, demons, or other Fallen. "If I have to get close to it, I layer up and wear masks. I avoid anywhere that burns incense or anything." This did, however, make it very hard to source materials for runes and sigils. Oh. The fucking corner store! The person who ran it was always burning candles. He’d been going there for years. "And if I even think I’m exposed to it, I shower. I just couldn’t smell anything through that damn cinnamon. It’s been strong the last few years, but never this bad."

...then again, he forced himself not to grimace; he hadn’t even worn his mask. Some dumbass had yelled at him the last time he had, and he hadn’t had it in him to get into an argument if he ran into someone else who took issue with him. Of course, that would be the one time Georgie burned fucking myrrh instead of their ‘field of fresh-mown grass’ candles.

In fact, he had sneezed. But their candles usually made him sneeze, and the cinnamon brooms irritated his nose, so he hadn’t thought anything of it.

Damn, he was stupid.

"Well, it is. What are you going to do now?"

Camael asked a good question. Raphael pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. "I’ll have to be more careful. Cover up as much as I can, stay away from any shops if I can, wear a mask. Definitely will shower as soon as I get home no matter what... that was dumb of me."

"Very."

It was funny when Michael and Gabriel did it. When Michael and Camael spoke together, it was just disconcerting.

"Burn any cinnamon brooms I find," he added, sotto voce.

"Why are they even a thing?" Michael shook her head. "Makes you feel like you shoved a bar of cinnamon up your nose."

He laughed, enjoying the rumble of Camael’s chest behind him as he did the same.

God, he’d missed this.

"What were you doing here, anyway?" He'd been sure he’d be spending Christmas alone. But here were Michael and Camael in his apartment, having saved his life. "Not that I’m not grateful!" He was quick to add.

Camael didn’t laugh again, but Raphael could feel the rumble of his chuckle against his back. The warmth that spread through his chest, then, was anything but painful.

"Well, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?" Camael said, and now that he paid attention, Raphael realized he was right. Even through the cinnamon, he could smell turkeys and hams baking; his gender-optional neighbor had, it seemed, procrastinated and was only now baking an over-sweetened apple pie. Children were shrieking (he grimaced. Michael snickered.), and adults and older children were laughing. Awful Christmas music was playing, muffling the tearing of wrapping paper and the high-pitched noises of children trying out their new toys.

"You really thought we were going to let you spend it alone? Our own brother?"

Yes.

"I didn’t think you celebrated, honestly."

He knew they celebrated. He’d seen them more than once, participating in so many holidays over the centuries. So many New Year's celebrations, sometimes more than one in the same year. Why humans couldn’t pick a calendar and stick with it, he’d never know. Sometimes it was just Michael and Gabriel. Others, it was Michael, Gabriel, and Camael, and he was glad about it. It was nice to know they were still close. Rarely, it was just one of them. Often, it was Michael and Raguel, Camael, and, bafflingly, Gabriel and Kushiel. He’d seen them giving gifts of protection during Handsel Monday centuries ago, helping with the harvest and blessing the loaves of Lammas, preventing injuries during Gŵyl Mabsant, betting on who’d fail to carry the burning barrels during Up Helly Aa, throwing tomatoes at each other (from what he could tell through watching from afar, they lost points if they hit humans) each La Tomatina he’d seen, and, on one memorable occasion, Gabriel, Kushiel, and Raguel, glamored to appear as a man, competing in a heated discus throwing competition at one of the last Ancient Olympic games while Michael and Camael egged them on. This had ended very quickly when Gabriel, scowling at Kushiel, had flung his discus an impossible distance and lodged it into the wall of the stadium. There had been a very brief chaos as the angels rushed to make the humans forget what they saw.

Raphael would have helped, honestly, but he’d been too busy laughing until he cried at the horror on their faces.

And, in recent years, Gabriel seemed to have found it great fun to participate in Blasphemy Day. Michael always followed him, telling him he shouldn’t, but if Raphael got close enough that he could make out her face, she was always grinning.

But why should he think they’d want to celebrate with him?

"Of course we do," Michael frowned. "Actually, Camael, can you text Gabriel? He’s probably wondering where we are."

"Wait, Gabriel–?"

"He’s at Camael’s apartment. We’ve got a tree up and everything. If you’re feeling up to it, of course?"

Of course, he was up to it. He’d drag himself across shards of blessed glass if only to have a moment with any of them. His skin was a bit too sensitive, but otherwise? He’d have had no idea that he’d almost died in such a stupid way.

"Yeah, of course." Michael stared him down, but she’d raised him, insofar as any of them had been raised, so he didn’t squirm or look away.

"Tell Gabriel we’re about to head over," she finally said, apparently satisfied. Then she leaned forward, grabbing something out of his sightline that crinkled loudly. When she leaned back, she held a lumpy package in her hands, covered in gaudy, multi-colored stripes. At least, he assumed so. They smeared, hurting his eyes. She dropped it in his lap.

"What’s this?" He picked it up, wrinkling his brow when it gave under his touch.

"You have to look the part." Even still, she sounded tired, and he felt horrible for scaring her so badly.

Look the part?

Finally, he really looked at her. And then he had to laugh. He’d been a bit distracted, but now it was impossible to miss the garish red sweater she wore. It clashed horribly with her hair, and he wished more than anything that he could make out what those twinkling, white blobs were.

"Camael’s is worse," she grumped. That he had to see. He twisted, then laughed harder. Raphael hadn’t known blue could be that bright, and the fuzziness of it explained the coarseness he’d felt against his exposed skin. Lights of various colors twinkled, and he snorted, then laughed at that.

"Oh God," he rubbed at his eyes as they teared up, "that’s bad."

"Wait until you see yours." Camael patted his shoulder.

"Mine?" The word came out far louder than he’d intended it to.

They really did want him, didn’t they? A gift, a Christmas tree, and now an ugly Christmas sweater. His grin, he was sure, was wobbly. Raphael had gifts for them too, of course. But he’d had no delusions of being able to give them to them. He had intended to give them to Camael the next time he saw him, Oh, I saw these, thought of you guys. Mind giving those to Michael and Gabriel next you see them? Thanks!

He’d never dreamed of being able to see them open them.

"Now, get dressed. Put that on, get some pants. Sister or not, I’m not going through your underwear drawer."

"Thank you for that."

He had so much to thank her for. Raphael didn’t think he’d ever be able to say them all.

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perfectpaperbluebirds · 8 months

Text

Sicktember #30

Prompt: Patient 0

Fandom/OCs: The Office (Sick Andy)

Words: 1550

Sicknario inspo: Character faking sick and character actually sick quarantined together from this post.

Author’s comments/background: A fandom I only write by request generally, but one that is always fun to revisit and good in a pinch for a writing challenge, since there’s so many characters. I have a love/hate relationship with Andy, and I’m not sure how great his characterization and dialogue is, but I suppose you all can be the judge of that.

~~~***~~~

It was the semi-annual HR training day, and the employees of Dunder Mifflin, Scranton branch all shuffled in looking as if it was their execution day. They showed up, though, every single one. Truancy on training day had been a huge issue for a long time, so the corporate HR bigwigs had implemented this policy years ago: Mandatory attendance on training day, no doctor's notes accepted. A no-show meant automatic enrollment in twenty-four hours (the equivalent of three working days) of makeup online training. It was a brutal policy, but an effective one. No one missed training day anymore.

All was normal until Andy Bernard showed up with a head cold from hell. Dressed to the nines as always, his clothes seemed to be the only thing holding him together. He was a sneezing, coughing, achy, miserable mess. The only thing that kept the rest of them from sending him home was the fact that he didn't have a fever. He would have insisted on staying, though, even if he was feverish. He had gone through all the trouble of getting here and he wasn't about to go home and do online training now.

The rest of the employees vehemently opposed him joining them in the training room, though, visibly shedding contagion as he was. They came to a compromise after much discussion: Andy would be quarantined in the break room with a laptop for the training and still get credit for attending without infecting everyone else, an arrangement everyone felt was satisfactory, even though Kelly, Angela, and Oscar kept giving Andy dirty looks and muttering about having to decontaminate the break room that evening.

Michael was fashionably late that day and missed all the hullabaloo. He arrived just as Andy was getting settled in the break room and, after much pestering, the boss learned what was going on. Everyone saw the gears turning in Michael’s mind as they prepared to go into training, and they wondered what new foolishness was in store.

Sure enough, about five minutes before the start time, Michael announced that he had an announcement, visibly shaking around a handful of tissues, which he'd been using to scrub at his nose for several minutes beforehand, making it a passable red.

"I wasn't going to say anything, but I'm sick too," he said, with a fake, congested tone. "I didn't want to worry you all. But if you all are really so worried about getting sick, I'd better go in with Bernard too, just to be safe."

The staff exchanged looks, wondering if they'd heard correctly. This seemed too good to be true.

"Well if you're sick, Michael, then you should definitely go in with Andy. We don't want to be breathing in your germs all day," Phyllis said.

"I'm definitely sick. I tried to hide it when I first got here, but I guess the cat's out of the bag. I'm really not feeling so good. Guess I'll have to go relax in the break room for a few hours," Michael said, trying to sound convincingly pathetic. "I'm not sure how much of the training I'll hear. I might have to take a nap at some point."

"Whatever you need to do. As long as you feel better and stay away from us," Pam agreed.

"Okay, then I guess I'll head on in there… you guys will bring us lunch at noon, right? Since I'm sure you don't want us going through the buffet line, being so sick and all." He rubbed at his nose with a loud sniffle for emphasis.

"Oh we'll make sure you're taken care of," Stanley said.

"I'll be standing guard by the door, Michael," Dwight said. "We can't have you escaping to shed your germs to the rest of us. The office would be in chaos."

One glance at Dwight showed that he believed Michael was truly sick, and Jim and Pam shared a secret smile at this realization. But he was playing right into what the rest of them wanted.

"Dwight is right, Michael. You'll have to stay in there all day. Can't be too careful," Jim said.

This made Michael pause, but they all knew he was in too deep now to backtrack. "...Okay," Michael said at last. "For the good of the team. I'll sacrifice my freedom for your health. I hope you're all thankful." He scrubbed at his nose again to make sure it stayed pink and itchy, giving them all a martyred look.

"You better get in there. You're breathing your germs all over us every second," Kelly said.

"Okay, okay, I'm going. I'll see you all on the other side," Michael said, with an attitude of going off to war.

Once the door was closed behind him, the staff shared a triumphant smile. A whole day free of Michael, and no chance of him making the training any worse than it had to be. It felt like Christmas had come early, at least as far as work could go.

~~~

Michael steeled himself as the door shut behind him to turn and face the visibly sick Andy. A whole day alone with Bernard would have been bad enough, but a sick Bernard would be a special sort of torture. Michael had a fleeting thought that getting out of training might not have been worth it for this, but there was no turning back now.

Andy was clearly surprised to have company, but Michael erupted into a fake coughing fit before he could speak, then carried forward into a loud, fake sneezing fit. When he emerged from his handful of tissues (with plenty of scrubbing at his nose for good measure), Andy's gaze was sympathetic.

"So you've got the crud too, huh? That's tough luck." Andy sniffled now, and it was far too wet-sounding to be fake, not to mention his glistening upper lip. "I wonder which one of us was patient 0."

"Huh?" Michael made his way to the sink, feeling the need to wash his hands already.

"You know, which of us got the other sick. Patient 0. The source of an infection."

"Oh! Oh it was definitely me. Yeah, I've been feeling sick since last Thursday or Friday."

"Wow, that's a long time. Yeah, then I guess it was you. I knew I shouldn't have let you sit at my desk for so long the other day." He clearly wasn't upset though and reclined in his chair, coughing and blowing his nose intermittently, never once washing his hands and leaving his tissues heaped up beside him.

Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty, and still the laptop screen remained blank, saying they were waiting for the presenter in the lobby. It seemed they were having technical difficulties down the hall. Clearly bored, Andy stood and began to dig through the drawers idly.

"Hey, a deck of cards! We should play something," he said, sitting back down at the table and pushing the laptop aside, beginning to shuffle.

"I don't know… are you sure that's a full deck?" Michael asked, unable to pull his eyes from Andy's germy hands touching every card.

"Eh, who cares. We'll figure it out," Andy said. "C'mon, what are you, chicken? You think you can beat me even though I'm sick? No one ever beats Andy Bernard at cards. Just name the game."

Michael started to smile. "You know what, you're on, Bernard. Prepare to eat your words."

~~~

Andy's cold had a fast incubation period apparently, because the next morning it was Michael who arrived a sick, contagious mess. (Andy himself called in now that the threat of HR training had passed; apparently it was a long lasting cold too.) Michael announced his entrance with a violent sneeze that made everyone turn to look, wondering if he was continuing the charade. No such luck, though. There was no fake scrubbing needed to make his nose red and drippy, and there was no faking the wet, chesty coughing. There was also no mistaking the mischievous look in Michael's eyes as everyone was forced to witness the inevitability of this cold.

"Michael, why are you here when you're still clearly sick?" Dwight asked in alarm.

"Oh it's not that bad. I can still work. Besides, if I had to get sick from Bernard after being trapped with him for eight hours, then the rest of you should be sick too. I am patient 0!"

"No, you're not…." Jim said in irritation. "Andy still is. You just said you caught this from him. That makes him patient 0."

Michael glared at Jim and was trying to think of a good response when Dwight stepped between them.

"Oh no. I will not allow this, Michael." Pulling out gloves from somewhere on his person, Dwight began to shove Michael toward his office, with Michael protesting the whole way. Once Michael was inside, pounding against the door, Dwight posted himself as a guard outside just as he had the previous day.

A sullen-looking Michael shuffled to the window of his office to gaze forlornly out at them, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. The staff turned away one by one to return to their work, leaving their sick boss to stew in the consequences of his choices.

#sicktember 2023 #skt 2023 #the off/ice #sick andy #prompt 30

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zartophski · 2 years

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Sicktember Drabbles, Day Twenty Six: Tickle In The Throat

Sky was driving Wind insane. The kind of insane where he felt about five seconds away from screaming. He felt bad about it, of course. It wasn’t Sky’s fault, but if the older hero cleared his throat one more time…

Sky coughed, a raspy noise that set Wind’s nerves on edge. He grimaced, knowing it wasn’t pleasant for Sky either, but he didn’t think he could stand being around him for much longer.

“Are you out of water?” Twilight asked Sky, passing his canteen over to the Chosen Hero. Wind glared at the dirt, wishing he was a better friend.

#sicktember #sicktember 2022 #linked universe #lu wind #lu sky #lu twilight #Zee is keysmashing

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dontfeeltoohot · 2 years

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Sicktember Day 15 - Sunburn - Pre-Steddie - Vampire AU

He’s good at avoiding most sunlight. He keeps his jacket when he’s outside, his hair is long and shields most of his face. The bits of skin that do get sun are usually able to withstand the heat and rays for the amount of time he’s out in it, which is minimal. Hawkins is about as sunny as it is overcast or rainy, which definitely works to his advantage.

Of course, Steve fucking Harrington invites him to a get together at his house, and tells him to bring a swim suit, that he has a pool and they all usually congregate out there and then head in to watch a movie when it gets dark. And of course, Eddie says he’ll be there, because he’s a love sick dumbass.

All hope that maybe Saturday will be overcast and dreary is dashed when the long haired man watches the sun start to rise at six am. He turns the news on like usual for he and Wayne, and the woman says the high will be 86, and it’ll be sunny all day. Fucking fuck.

The thing is, it’s not as if sunlight actually burns him like in the movies, it doesn’t. But it makes him feel drained, makes his skin feel uncomfortably hot. His powers start to become fuzzy and weak, and though yes, he technically can go into sunlight, he very much prefers not to. The longest he’s been in the sun was around twenty minutes, and he’d felt ready to pass out, only he physically couldn’t.

And now….well there’s no turning back, as he waits for someone to invite him into the Harrington’s place. After ringing the doorbell, he waits five seconds and then Steve opens the door, smiling a little.

“Eddie, hey man, glad you made it. Come on in,” Steve is standing there in just red swim trunks, no shirt on.

Nodding, the twenty year old walks into the house, black backpack; carrying a brand new pair of cheap black swim trunks and an old towel of Wayne’s, slung over his shoulder. Looking around, he notices that the house feels more like a museum than a home, and it makes his non-beating heart ache.

“Yeah, thanks uh, thanks for inviting me.”

“Do you have swim shorts? I have extra if you need any,” the nineteen year old assures as they walk through the living room and kitchen.

“I have some in my bag, but thanks. I’m not…I’m not a big pool guy, usually,” he tries to explain.

Even without the whole vampire thing, he’s not sure he would have been in many pools growing up anyway, not with a deadbeat dad and a mother who was working more than she was home. Feeling uneasiness start to make a pit in his stomach, he walks outside with the other man, grateful when he notices that at least some parts of Steve’s backyard are shaded. Unfortunately, the pool is right in the middle with no shade anywhere close by.

God he’s fucked.

For a bit, he hangs out under the shade closer to Steve’s house than the pool, laughing with Jonathan about California and all the different ‘rules’ they have there. Jonathan finally decides to go into the pool after prompting from Argyle, and he knows there’s no getting out of it now.

“Eddie, come on!” Robin splashes the water forward as hard as she can, spraying just a small amount onto the long haired man’s legs. “We get your pale, have Steve put sunscreen on you or something.”

“Let me go change,” he grabs his bag and forces himself to slowly walk inside, keeping up a humans pace until he shuts the back door.

As he changes, Eddie stares at himself in the mirror of Steve’s downstairs bathroom. He’s pale in a way that’s not sickly but it’s not entirely healthy either. There’s no warmth on his cheeks, no blood in his body to create the capillaries to cause any flush at all. At least, no blood that’s being truly pumped and oxygenated, no blood he’s made himself. The only blood in his body is that of animals he feeds off of.

Slipping his clothing off, the twenty year old slides into his new swim suit, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. Right, people are waiting. Get it together Munson.The second he steps outside, his skin starts feeling warm. Eddie’s forgotten what exactly it feels like, the sudden sting that settles into skin and starts warming up his entire body.

“Woah, bro. You’re paler than Jonathan, and that’s like, saying something.”

Eddie turns to chuckle at Argyle, giving him a half smile.

“Munson genes, we all got porcelain skin,” he shrugs, brushing hair away from his mouth.

As he gets in, the water doesn’t help much with how warm his skin feels, but he ignores it in favor of keeping his attention on the others. Robin and Nancy are laughing and Steve is splashing them, while Jonathan and Argyle float contentedly in tubes. Moving to where Steve is, he gives a grin, splashing the man from behind.

“Shit!”

Laughing, Eddie scrunches his nose up and grins, his oddly long canine teeth exposed.

“Sorry, King Steve,” he teases playfully.

Suddenly, water splashes him, and from there it’s an all out war. Ten minutes later of chasing around the pool, of splashing and dunking, and everyone; because of course they all joined in, is tired. Eddie leans against the wall of the pool, shifting so sunlight isn’t directly hitting him. He feels oddly exhausted, something he’s not at all accustomed to, and he leans his head back with a thunk to the tile.

As minutes pass, the long haired man’s skin hurts. It’s no longer just an uncomfortable sensation, but verging on painful. Standing completely, he sighs.

“I’m going to find some shade,” he announces, thinking he should also grab a beer to make himself look at ease and comfortable with them all.

Just another thing he has to think about now- eating and drinking. He doesn’t need food, everything tastes bland and identical, but humans eat, and if he didn’t drink something on a hot day like everyone else, people will question him. Getting out, the twenty year old heads to the cooler near the door and pops open a beer can, taking a few sips. He can hear Robin approaching before he knows he actually should.

“Hey, I’m glad you came,” she smiles genuinely, which makes Eddie smile right back.

Robin Buckley is an anomaly and he enjoys getting to learn more about her. Sometimes he wants so badly to listen to her thoughts, to know how her brain works, but he doesn’t do that. He’s not going to do that to any of his friends. They trust him, and even if they don’t know he’s doing it, the guilt isn’t something he can deal with.

“I am too,” his hair drips onto the stone ground.

“Come lay out with me? You might even get a tan,” she jokes, and Eddie bites his lip.

“Mm, I’m getting pretty hot, honestly, I don’t kn-“

“Please? Nancy’s going to lay out too,” and damn Robin and her fucking earnest face.

“Fine. Lead the way, m’lady.”

As he lays baking in the sun, Eddie wonders if the blood he consumed earlier has evaporated from his body. His body feels like concrete as he tries to raise his arm. Not good, this is not good.

“Hey, uh. I need to…” he swallows, though he’s not sure why, it’s not like he needs to. “I need to go inside, I’m really hot.”

Both girls look at him, worry clouding their eyes. He must sound bad, because Robin is yelling for Steve, and Eddie isn’t sure he’s ever felt like this, like he wants to sleep, not since turning, at least. Steve’s suddenly right next to him, a hand on his shoulder. It hurts more than it should, the weight pressing against him.

“Your skin feels ok, so you’re probably not overheated.”

His skin is usually thirty degrees cooler than an average humans. Fucking shit.

“I really need to go inside,” Eddie forces himself to sit up. Moving feels like he’s going through molasses, and it makes his head swim. Not. Good.

Standing, Eddie makes his way into Steve’s house, Robin and Steve following him. He sits a few feet from the door, dropping down to lean against the wall. His shorts are dry now, his hair barely damp, curls wild and frizzy.

“Lemme get you water,” Steve says suddenly, as if remembering from all his life guard training.

“Are you okay? We can get a cold pack or something, or-“

“I’ll be okay…does Steve even own a cold pack?” He keeps his eyes shut, listening as Robin’s heart beats starts to slow from his joke, her breaths evening out.

“I can check,” she laughs. “But doubtful.”

Steve arrives back with not only a cup of ice water, but a cold, damp washcloth. He moves long hair away and then the fabric touches the back of his neck. Instantly, some of the intense heat dissipates.

“Thanks. Sorry for uh,” Eddie waves a hand around lazily. “I’m not an outdoors guy, this is just one reason,” he jokes, deciding that self-deprecating humor is a good choice.

“It’s all good dude, why don’t we order some pizza and we can watch a movie or something.”

“I’m down for that.”

It’s how Eddie ends up stretched across Steve’s couch, Robin and Argyle assuring they want the floor while Nancy and Jonathan sit on the other couch. Eddie’s lap is in the ex swim captain's lap, and he has to remind himself to pretend to breathe. When everyone else is asleep hours later, Eddie tries to take everything in, wanting to remember how fun of a day it’s been all things considered, before he silently gets up to go and find an animal to feed on in the woods near Steve’s house.

#my fic #sicktember #sh #em #rb #nw #ff #st #vampau

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tarlos-spain · 2 years

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Sicktember Day 4

This story is going to be a bit longer because there is a lot to tell. I already warn you that there will be a lot of angst and sick/hurt Carlos… probably also TK. I hope you like it

Title: Time in range

Paring: Carlos Reyes/TK Strand

Prompt: Can you brave for me?

Summary:

He awoke sometime in the early evening, still hugging TK and still with his boyfriend there looking at him as he hugged him. He had put something on the TV, softly, but wasn't paying too much attention to it because he was more busy staring at him.

"You were fast asleep," TK whispered to him and leaned in for a kiss. "Something tells me you needed to sleep."

"I hadn't realized how exhausted I was."

He lied, it had been a while since Carlos had noticed he wasn't feeling well, days or even weeks that he felt more tired than usual, sometimes his legs and hands would shake, but it passed quickly. Sometimes he felt dizzy, but he was convinced that it was because he was tired, because of the hours without sleep or because he had to be at work and at the hospital every day to be with TK.

Chapter 01

Carlos could mark that day on the calendar. As soon as they entered the house, he wrapped both hands around TK's neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I can't believe it."

TK turned around, smiling, he knew what he was talking about. But he asked anyway. "Why do you say that?"

"No more revisions for you for another four months. Really..." For a moment Carlos felt himself getting dizzy and rested his forehead on TK's shoulder. "It's been the worst weeks of my life."

TK tugged at him, it seemed almost strange that his boyfriend had the strength to carry him back and forth, but he let him do it, because for a long time he had imagined TK breaking in his arms. Now, TK was himself again.

He carried him over to the couch and made him sit down, to settle in beside him while Carlos continued talking.

"Every day, ever since I saw you in that hospital bed and noticed you fading away...every day I thought I was losing you." TK stroked her cheek and ran his hand up to her hair. "Then you woke up, it seemed all done, but they said your brain could...you know because of the cold and your heart..."

"Hush hush. I'm here, okay? Don't think about that now."

Carlos nodded and rested his head on TK's chest. He sighed as TK wrapped both arms around his body and kissed the top of his head. Everything was okay... everything was at last. There were no schedules, no doctor's appointments, and the cell phone would let them know when it was time for him to take his medication.

The rest was a free and quiet afternoon. He closed his eyes and allowed for the first time in a long time his body to relax and he allowed himself to sleep, though fear of being woken up by the hospital machines was still there in case something else happened to TK.

"You were fast asleep," TK whispered to him and leaned in for a kiss. "Something tells me you needed to sleep."

"I hadn't realized how exhausted I was."

He hadn't told anyone, because he didn't want to worry them, not when TK's health was in continuous danger, after all it was nothing serious, he was sure that when things got better, his own condition would improve.

Now, however, he realized, that this was not the case.

"How long was I sleep?" he asked, thinking he had slept a scant twenty minutes.

"Almost five hours."

"What?"

He sat up, but doing so felt weak, very weak, and he dropped back onto TK, who caught him in his arms. "Babe. Are you okay?"

"Yeah... I think... I don't know, my head hurts... a lot but it must be from sleeping too much or in a bad position."

Keep Reading on AO3

#sicktember #Tarlos #Sick Carlos #Hurt Carlos #Sick TK #During season 3 #Hospital #protective TK #diabetes #angst

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alright-anakin · 3 years

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Sicktember 2021 Day 27: Blankets

@sicktember

tw: vomiting

Day Twenty Seven: Blankets

“Where is he?” Fives muttered, turning around and leaving the office. “I thought…”

“What’s up?” Echo asked. Fives started, turning to him.

“Do you know where Rex is?” Echo shook his head.

“I haven’t seen him all day.” He looked like he’d just realized that. Fives frowned.

“I thought he had a meeting and then some paperwork. At least he mentioned that last night.”

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Note

Sicktember

9: I’m Not Sick with John.

Common Cold (Or Not)

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Hurt/Comfort Characters: John, EOS

A cold is nothing to be worried about. As long as it is just a cold, anyway. @sicktember prompt 9: I'm Not Sick

In contrast to yesterday, a much easier premise! I knew exactly where this was going to go when I saw it :D

Sicktember 2021 Prompts - I only plan on writing prompts if I get a request for them, so request away :D Doesn’t have to be TAG - characters from any fandom can be requested (although I can only guarantee I’ll work with ones I know)

He managed to hold it off just long enough for the call to drop, his big brother blinking away into nothing.

“Atchoo!”

“John, that is the fifth time in the past twenty-eight minutes you have sneezed,” EOS informed him immediately. “Thunderbird Five is a sterile environment that does not provide any external triggers that could cause this. Are you quite sure you are not ill?”

“I’m fine, EOS,” he promised. “I’m not sick.”

“Then what is causing it?” she asked, lights flickering in concerned curiosity. “There is no other explanation.”

He shrugged her off. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Some sneezing wasn’t anything concerning – even ifAlan had been sneezing the other day when he’d stopped by on his way home from visiting Captain Taylor on Mars, which had then developed into a full cold. Nothing he’d picked up on Mars, thankfully – John had promptly traced that back to a rescue in Alaska two days earlier – but something that he could, conceivably, have spread to Thunderbird Five.

It was just a cold. Nothing to worry about, and it was better for his family if he didn’t bring it home and spread it around them any more than Alan already had, anyway – even if, so far, only the youngest had had it, which meant it was probably a common variant that the others had already been exposed to at some point. John must have just missed it by virtue of living in space.

“John, I am not sure I agree with your assessment,” EOS pressed. “Even the common cold can cause serious disruption to a human’s systems, and your medical record suggests that you are more susceptible than most to the effects.”

She wasn’t wrong, but, “it’s just a cold, EOS,” he reminded her. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

In hindsight, he should have known better.

The first clue was the shivering. Between Thunderbird Five and his suit, the temperature his body experienced was micromanaged by some of the most state of the art technology in the world. He should never be cold enough to shiver, and yet short, sharp trembles ran down his spine at random – usually highly inconvenient – times. Not enough to be noticeable over holograms, but enough to get EOS’s attention directly back on the topic of his health.

Pacifying her was a challenge, but John managed it somehow.

The runny nose that followed was an irritation, but some manipulation of the image of him projected to his family took care of that. EOS made her disapproval clear on that front as well, but John stood firm. A minor cold was nothing to worry about, and quarantining himself was the smart choice anyway.

It wouldn’t last long, and then he’d shake it off and his family need never know.

If only that had happened.

The blurry vision a few days later caught him off guard, halfway through directing Virgil on a rescue, and if he wasn’t in Zero-G he would probably have lost his balance. As it was, floating was suddenly disorientating in a way John had never experienced before, and it startled him enough that he lost his train of thought.

“John? John, are you there?”

Virgil’s voice snapped him back to reality, and with a deep breath he pushed himself back towards the relevant data and fumbled for his train of thought again. The data swam in front of his eyes, nonsensical in a way he was sure it hadn’t been a moment earlier.

“John?”

“I…” he started, but the blurry vision that hadn’t gone away got even worse, and his stomach rolled.

“John!”

Virgil suddenly sounded worried, in a way he hadn’t just before. The rescue hadn’t taken a turn for the worse, had it? He fumbled for the data, but the holograms wouldn’t focus, and his stomach wouldn’t stop rolling and the faint thought struck him that maybe he was worse than he thought.

“EOS,” he croaked.

“John, your vitals-”

“Help Virgil,” he interrupted. “The rescue-”

“John? What’s wrong?” Virgil sounded frantic. “Scott, something’s wrong with John.”

His older brother’s voice exploded into Thunderbird Five, crackling in a way that said he was shouting too close to the microphone. John couldn’t make out a word of it.

“EOS,” he repeated urgently. Virgil was on a rescue. He needed Thunderbird Five’s data. “Help… help Virgil.”

She didn’t respond immediately. The cacophony of his brothers’ voices was getting louder, more desperate, but John couldn’t parse anything they were saying.

He couldn’t parse whatever she eventually said, either, but it silenced the other voices.

Then everything was silent.

And black.

#sicktember2021 #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #john tracy #eos #virgil tracy #thunderwhump #janetm74 #sicktember

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indigostars · 3 years

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FIC MASTERLIST

here you can find my fics from my ao3 as well as any writing that i’ve put directly on tumblr. happy reading!

STAR WARS

when the sun goes down - exploring the growth (and eventual collapse) of Anakin and Obi-Wan’s relationship

a little loss of innocence - Ahsoka and Obi-Wan have an important conversation after the events of the deception arc

drunk on this pain - the battle of Mustafar ends differently (tw: major character death)

make believe, it’s hyper real - Obi-Wan and Ahsoka shenanigans and a mission gone wrong (written for CC gift exchange)

chasing out the darkness - Ahsoka and Obi-Wan intervene at a crucial moment in time and the fate of the galaxy is changed.

saying goodbye (is death by a thousand cuts) - just 5k of Obi-Wan being sad (tw: major character death)

laughing ‘til our ribs get tough - disaster trio attempts to mini golf

23. only twenty minutes to sleep (but you dream of some epiphany) - part of the Daily Death Obi-Wan Kenobi event, co-written with @sumerianempire-writes

if i didn’t know better, i’d think you were still around - Obi-Wan gets sick and doesn’t have a good time (for sicktember 2021, day 18)

with pace and a fury defiant - Obi-Wan goes to Mandalore once more (for whumptober 2021, day 3)

moonlight sonata - an American 1920s AU collab with the infamous chaos company discord

if we could turn the hourglass - Ahsoka and Obi-Wan reunite and have a discussion

where the spirit meets the bones - Ahsoka fights for everyone’s survival after a crash landing (written for CC gift exchange)

like petals in our pockets (may we remember who we are) - some wounds need some time to heal (written for CC gift exchange)

forever (nobody said that it would last) - Ahsoka grows up.

a melody of reformation - in which i watch the kenobi series trailer and write my interpretation of it. hence: it’s sad desert man hours.

glazed eyes, empty hearts - the deception arc ends very, very differently (tw: major character death) (for angstpril 2022, day 1)

bleeding an ocean of permanent life - within a course of a week, Obi-Wan’s life changes drastically (for angstpril 2022, days 8 and 9)

some mistakes get made - for bad things happen bingo: accidentally hurting a friend

barely holding on (to you) - for bad things happen bingo: brain damage

see how deep the bullet lies - after the events on Daiyu, Leia asks Obi-Wan a question

fire is the devil’s only friend - Obi-Wan’s life comes crashing down once more

shadows stretch beyond the truth - for bad things happen bingo: breaking a promise

nothing left to decode - injured and trapped, Obi-Wan and Anakin have nothing to do but talk (written for a 48 hour challenge)

reread every single undertone - Obi-Wan is finally forced to confront his past. AU

so make the friendship bracelets (take the moment and taste it) - Leia meets Ben Kenobi. it leaves a lasting impact on her (written for CC gift exchange)

tearing you asunder - five times Obi-Wan loses someone he loves, and one time he does not

scars on our hearts - the disaster trio struggle in a post-war world

long story short (it was a bad time) - for bad things happen bingo: severed artery

there’s no morning glory - post aotc angst

and the memories i can never escape - for bad things happen bingo: struggling against caretaker

febuwhump2021 - tumblr event masterlist

angstpril2021 - tumblr event masterlist

whumptober2021 - tumblr event masterlist

angstpril2022 - tumblr event masterlist

disaster trio appreciation week 2022 - tumblr event masterlist

whumptober2022 - day 5: running out of air

ATLA

so ends this day - the 100-year war ends in a way no one prepared for (tw: major character death)

crestfallen on the landing - Katara and Zuko alone with their thoughts after the crossroads of destiny

dramatic rainy confession - as the name states: time for Zuko and Katara to do what they do best (tumblr only)

HARRY POTTER

moments in time - the story of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter

#fic masterlist #star wars #atla #harry potter

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garnetmantle · 3 years

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Title: After Omega, Star Trek TOS

by: green rose

@sicktember

Prompt #4 Headache

Notes: The TOS episode "Omega Glory" is literally one long recipe for a headache for Kirk. Spock was caught in the nimbus of a phaser set to kill in this episode.

Numbly, Jim tried to orient himself among the crush and chaos that was the excited Yangs. Spock. He was trying to keep an eye on Spock, who had admitted to being weak, which probably meant he was barely keeping his feet under him through some feat of Vulcan endurance. Jim’s vision was swimming a bit in the torch-flashing darkness, and he was so damn tired, but he eventually homed in on the red-shirted security guards, and found McCoy, very unhappy, at Spock’s side.

The doctor was not supporting Spock, but he clearly wanted to be. Spock stood at-ease, clearly rebuffing any such attempt. So McCoy was scanning the crowd, and when his eyes hit Jim he lunged forward and grabbed his arm, dragging him forward to stand the appropriate distance from Spock for a beam up. The sudden jerk brought the taste of bile up behind Jim’s teeth. Bones was glaring hard enough that it made Jim a little more dizzy to try to meet his eyes, so he stopped trying to and looked at Spock. Whose at-ease was wavering in its own wind.

“I suppose we can beam up now?” McCoy demanded.

Unperturbed, Spock spoke into his communicator in a steady but very quiet voice, “Three to beam up, Mr. Scott.”

Jim was moving the second the transporter let go, and caught Spock, who went at the knees the moment the transporter beam released him. Kirk had him before his body could hit the ground -- he’d known the usually-inconsequential disorientation of the transporter was going to get Spock, he’d just been able to tell. McCoy was swearing, and his scanner was humming.

So Jim had him under the elbows, crushed against his side, and he only had a moment to dislike how limp Spock had gone before the awful realization hit him that his own balance and coordination was not sufficient to maintain the two of them until the waiting medical team swimming into focus in the too-bright lights of the room could climb on the platform.

Kirk clenched his teeth and swallowed. He had been up for two straight days and nights, but he was not going to drop Spock, and he was not going to throw up in the middle of the transporter room. He was trying to get the nausea forced back enough to tell the corpsmen to hurry up and get Spock when McCoy took Spock’s other side and more than half his weight, and gestured his subordinates forward.

They relieved Jim of the Vulcan’s weight, which he needed, and of the contact, which left a gnawing worry behind it, and put Spock on the anti-grav stretcher they had waiting. One of them handed McCoy a small med-kit which he instantly opened. He read off the hypos, and administered them directly to his patient.

Clearly McCoy had called ahead. Why had Spock waited that long for him to beam up?

It was a little worrying that Spock had let himself be handled by strange corpsmen -- these were new crew, on board less than a month -- and put on the stretcher without complaint, silent and pale and submitting to McCoy’s attentions with none of their usual argument. Jim blew out a slow breath and closed his eyes, then breathed in a deep one as he raised his head and eventually reopened them. Reset. He trusted Bones, and Bones had said authoritatively that Spock would live. There was a lot left to do with—

“Doctor,” Spock had rallied enough to come up on his elbows and look at Kirk, his gaze assessing. He interrupted the doctor in a quiet but very firm voice. Definitely coherent. “You are aware that the Captain has had several trauma-induced periods of unconsciousness during this mission, but you are unaware of the most severe. To my certain knowledge, he has been unconscious due to two severe traumatic blows for a cumulative nine hours and eighteen minutes since our beam down.”

Spock wasn’t announcing it to the room, just to McCoy, but it was bad enough because Bones stopped dead and raised his head. “Captain, you are required in Sickbay in twenty minutes.”

A biting reply wanted to come out – he was too tired to be bossed about by his CMO exercising his prerogatives – but Jim made himself stop. The truth was, his head was a pulsing raw pain he’d been able to manage only by lifting above it – literally dissociating from his own body a bit to cope. He had blood coming out of one ear, his vision was getting worse, and as his adrenaline dropped he was starting to get his own crosswind himself. He was stubborn, and he had a thousand things to do, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Yes, Doctor.”

McCoy, following the stretcher out, stopped to double-blink at him, then looked him over again. “Do you need transport?”

“No, Doctor.” The guards and Scotty and the transporter chief were all listening to them, now, so Jim walked to the door. Oh, yeah. He was getting his own wind and McCoy noticed, of course, caught Jim’s arm to balance the wavering, and started to demand Kirk come with him right then.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, on one condition,” Jim said quietly as he followed McCoy out into the hall. “I know you have some kind of anti-emetic in there, you always do when you’re treating Spock for anything serious. Give me.”

“Yeah?” McCoy asked, trying to catch his eyes, no doubt to evaluate his pupils, but Kirk wasn’t having it. Not quite yet. The doctor's voice was on the gentle side, though, which was immediately soothing, and he opened his med-kit. ”Migraine?”

Jim wished he could say yes, but it wasn’t a good day for blatant lies. “No. Spock’s right. I got my bell rung twice, hard-“

“As opposed to the half-dozen times it was lightly rung?” the doctor asked sharply. “I’m not blind, you know-“

Speaking slowly, Jim continued, “But I’ll be all right for a few more minutes, and then you can do whatever you want.”

“You’re just afraid you’ll get sick all over the Bridge? I’d bet on the turbolift, that upward and lateral motion at once—“

Kirk felt sweat on his upper lip, and he swallowed, hard. McCoy looked a bit abashed and gave him the shot in the arm, and within a few seconds Jim’s stomach had returned to the normal position. He coughed a little and swallowed, then tried out a smile. “You’d be amazed how much that helps. I –“

“Will be in Sickbay in twenty minutes, Captain,” McCoy growled, snapped his med-kit closed and took off after his patient. Instinct urged Kirk to go after them, but duty sent him in the other direction.

It was like water dripping away. Onto him. Away from him. A little more impairment. A little less adrenaline. Jim Kirk put one foot in front of the other, and he smiled when he needed to, and he was able to think well enough to handle what had to be handled and know when something had to be put off for a more coherent day. The lights got brighter, though. Drip. And blurrier. Drip. And god it hurt to focus his eyes. Drip. He prepared a bare bones report for the Admiralty, because that couldn’t wait, and every sound got louder. Drip, drip. The world got foggier, and his energy to navigate through it was lessened.

He finally turned, then waited as the Bridge kept turning for a moment before settling down before his eyes. “Mr. Sulu. You have the conn,” he said, and headed for the turbolift. His crosswind was getting more stormfront than gentle breeze – he knew he was swaying on his feet, didn’t that count for something? “If I’m needed you can reach me in Sickbay. Mr. Spock is also in Sickbay. Unless he is needed to keep the galaxy or the ship from blowing up, please forget you can reach him there.”

“Aye, Captain,” came from several people, but then quietly, from Uhura alone, “Could one of us escort you to Sickbay, sir?”

Kirk forced himself to stop swaying, forced a smile to his lips. “No, but thank you, Lieutenant.”

The drop of the turbolift had him laying back against the wall, and his hands over his eyes were trying to push the pain back away. Water dripping everywhere, he was in a rainstorm and it was washing away the world and his energy and his ability to control himself. His head had reached the white-out level, the pain hitting places his consciousness wasn't willing to go with it. One last thing, though.

He walked into Sickbay to see Dr. M’Benga arguing with Dr. McCoy, gentle to his irritation. “You’ve been up for two days, Leonard. Either go to your quarters or go sleep in your office, but you are not fit for regular duty right now.” They’d both worked under worse conditions for crisis duty.

“Just give me a few more minutes, Geoff. I’m not being stubborn. I want a shower and my bed, but—there he is!” He turned from his fellow doctor to glare at Kirk.

“Twenty minutes does not mean forty-five, Captain, sir.”

Kirk made one of his ‘yeah, yeah, whatever’ dismissive gestures and closed his eyes in a brief headshake. “How is Spock?”

McCoy frowned at him as he moved toward him with a scanner in one hand and a tricorder in the other. “In a healing trance. He’ll be fine in a few days, Jim. We were able to treat the radiation poisoning and the rest he can handle himself.”

Jim’s head went down with a huff of a sigh, but he batted at McCoy’s arm when the doctor raised it with the scanner, and McCoy started to growl at him, but Jim made his little dismissive-gesture-closed-eyes-headshake thing he did again. He spoke very evenly. “No. Bones. I think I... could use that… transport now.”

He didn’t go at the knees, he just dropped, and it was all McCoy and a lunging M’Benga could do to keep his limp body from bouncing off the floor.

He got a bed beside Spock's for three days. McCoy's blood pressure was not very appreciative of their stay.

End

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greenroseunderglass · 3 years

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After Omega : Fanfic - Star Trek TOS (Gen)

@sicktember

Prompt #4 Headache

by: greenroseunderglass (1st post to tumblr, I know I'm messing up every way possible.)