This is a fic for the anime/manga W/itch H/at A/telier, which is a delightful series that everyone should check out. It's even got this cute little creature called a brushbuddy, who this fic is about!
Other guys relevant to this fic include pov character Olruggio and his best friend/forever crush Qifrey, who he lives with while Qifrey is also training four young witches as his apprentices. This fic is set directly after episode 6 of the anime.
@darlingsnz gets a kudos from me for their post of headcanons for both O and Q that kicked my ass into gear and got me to write something -- thank you for your service!!
Without further ado, here we go! (1.8k)
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It first came to his attention soon after he discovered that Qifrey, damn the man, had acquired a new apprentice.
She'd snuck into his tower in pursuit of the brushbuddy (apparently the girls had a pet now) and had ended up charming him in a way that he was loathe to admit, although any remaining sense he'd had about turning her in to the Knights Moralis was sure quashed by the way her eyes lit up when she saw the Glowstone Path.
"You're getting soft, Olruggio," he said aloud to himself as he climbed back to his work station. His nose was itching, and he thumbed at it briefly with a dragging sniff. "Letting her run rough-shod over you like that."
He was still grumbling as he went back to his work, a particularly fiddly contraption he was putting together with the Silver Eve procession in mind. He had already been growing tired before the interruption by Coco, having gotten precious little sleep over the past few days while he'd been working abroad and traveling, but now he found himself distracted too. His nose continued to tickle, no matter how much he swiped at it with the heel of his hand or the knob of his wrist, and after a few minutes of it he found himself teetering on the edge of a sneeze.
It was a relief when it finally crossed that invisible line, and he pushed back from his desk to catch the sneeze in the crook of his elbow. "hh'USHhoo!"
He froze there for a moment, waiting to see if a second was coming. When the sensation began to fade, he resurfaced, sniffling and blinking watering eyes.
If it had just been the single sneeze, he wouldn't have thought much of it, but several of them came upon him in the same manner over the next few hours, which was unusual enough outside of hayfever season that it gave him pause.
Maybe he was getting a cold. He'd just go to bed early (-er than usual) and hope he could sleep it off.
When the morning came and he felt fine again, he assumed that was what had happened. He'd been lucky, for once. Maybe he should start doing this (sleeping) more often.
He even went down to have a late breakfast with Qifrey and the girls, who he could hear chattering in the main room as he made his way over from his tower. Qifrey was working with Coco and Tetia on peeling some vegetables for a stew that Agott was poring over on the stove, while Richeh set about measuring out spices. The brushbuddy poked its head up from Richeh's shoulder when Olruggio entered the room and gave a cheerful "Pwee!~" in greeting, as if it was still appreciative of him drying it off the night before.
"Olly!" Qifrey said cheerfully. "Fancy seeing you up and about before noon."
"Yeah, yeah." Olruggio went over to dish up some of the sliced fruits left on the counter from the girls' breakfasts. "Got things to do, ya know."
The rest of the morning passed in quiet contentment, with the girls studying in their own workspaces and Qifrey puttering around collecting and setting herbs to dry in the kitchen. After Olruggio finished his breakfast, he decided to also bring his in-progress contraption down to the main room. He generally preferred to do his work in solitude, but Qifrey wasn't bothersome, and in fact Olruggio found that he did tend to get more work done when he was around. Something about the quiet familiarity of occupying the same space as Qifrey put him in the proper creative mindset.
However, after a few hours of work, he returned to the main room from a break to find that the brushbuddy had curled up on his draft signs, drawn no doubt to the drying conjuring ink. It was definitely cute, Olruggio thought as he approached the furry white creature curled into a cozy spiral, but it was still in the way.
"Go on now, get," he said gently, reaching out to nudge the brushbuddy with the back of his hand when it opened a sluggish eye. "Go find one of the girls."
It uncurled with a grumbly squeak and hopped from the table, then rippled across the floor towards Tetia and Richeh's rooms, where it knew it would be more welcome. Olruggio brushed some stray fur from his papers and got back to work.
Unfortunately his productivity was doomed to stay fractured, because a few minutes later, his nose began to itch again. It started as a tingle in the very tip, but as he sniffled and scrubbed at his nose with his finger with little luck, the tickle grew and spread until his sinuses were buzzing with it.
Finally, his nose had had enough, and he leaned away from his work to sneeze heavily towards his shoulder, elbow half-raised in anticipation. "hrUSHHhoo!"
But this one required a follow-up, he realized quickly, and he snapped towards his shoulder once more. "USHHieu!"
"Bless you!" Qifrey called from the kitchen.
Olruggio ignored him; Qifrey always seemed to find great pleasure in blessing him when he sneezed, but he knew better than to expect a response from Olruggio in return. But, frustratingly, it wasn't more than five minutes later when he had to sneeze again. He squeezed his eyes shut and brought his elbow to his face again expectantly.
"USHieu!"
"Bless you!"
"hih? — hh'USHieuhh!"
"…Bless you. Are you all right, Olly?"
Olruggio looked up, sniffling wetly, to see Qifrey poking his head around the doorjamb from the kitchen, a half-stripped bundle of sage in his hands.
"I feel fine," Olruggio protested, though a third sneeze had begun to creep up from the back of his thickening sinuses, and he knew he was going to require a handkerchief soon. "Just this blasted sneezing."
"Perhaps you're catching cold?" Qifrey offered with no absence of concern. "You have been traveling a lot lately and wearing yourself down."
"And have another trip coming up this evening," Olruggio said with an irritated cough. His throat did feel a bit off too, though it was more itchy than sore. It felt almost like the way he reacted to grass pollen, though it was the wrong season for it. He wasn't sure quite what was going on.
"I'm sure they'll understand if you can't make it," Qifrey said, though they both knew that wasn't necessarily true. Some of Olruggio's clients could be quite demanding.
Olruggio shrugged. "I'll be all right, no need to worry about me."
The symptoms persisted throughout the early afternoon, until he gave up on working and retreated to his tower to bathe. The steam and humid air helped clear the congestion that had begun to set in, and after he emerged and began to dress for his trip, he found he felt almost normal again.
A bit odd, but he wasn't going to complain about it.
And in a way that continued to be odd, his symptoms completely dissipated over the next few days while he worked with some townspeople in a village to the west. Perhaps it had just been a small cold and he'd gotten over it, he thought, mildly perplexed.
But then, to his consternation, they began again as soon as he returned to the atelier. He was chatting with the girls and Qifrey in the kitchen when the brushbuddy scaled him until it could perch happily on his shoulder, fluffed up and preening as it welcomed him home.
The urge to sneeze swept upon him like a gust of wind, and he took a hurried step back from Qifrey and leaned away for an itchy, irritated sneeze into his elbow. "hrr'USHoo!"
The brushbuddy squealed and clung more tightly to his shoulder with its little black feet, but a second, harsher sneeze dislodged it and sent it skittering across the floor to Coco, who scooped it into her arms, wide-eyed.
"Bless you!" She said, echoed by Agott and Tetia. Qifrey, oddly enough, said nothing at first. It wasn't until Olruggio had found a handkerchief to blow his suddenly running nose that he spoke up.
"Have you considered that you might be allergic to the brushbuddy, Olruggio?" He asked mildly. Tetia looked dismayed, and Coco looked down at the fluffy creature in her arms. "You said you weren't sneezing at all while you were away, and it started back up as soon as you came home."
Olruggio sniffled wetly. "It has been years since I've been around them," he admitted. "And I can't say I've ever lived with one before. It's possible."
"This is horrible!" Tetia cried. "Poor Master Olly!"
"Do we need to…get rid of it?" Coco asked in a tiny voice, her eyes wide as the brushbuddy tried to curl into the smallest ball possible, keening quietly.
"I can manage," Olruggio began to say at the same time as Qifrey said, "There is a medicine that should help with it. It's what you already take in the summer, for the grass pollen."
Ah yes. It tasted foul unless it was in the form of a tea heavily sweetened with honey, and Olruggio was rubbish at remembering to take it, but maybe…
He shrugged. "I can do that. There's no need to get rid of the creature."
"We can make sure to sweep up more often," Agott said quickly. Olruggio was briefly charmed; he hadn't thought that the girl had cared much for the brushbuddy. Perhaps she was speaking more out of concern for her friends than out of her own love for the beast. "We'll make sure the main rooms stay clear of fur."
The brushbuddy had wriggled up onto Coco's shoulder, where it was half-hidden in her hair, but when Olruggio locked eyes with it, it gave a soft "pweeee" that sounded almost apologetic. He rubbed the back of his neck, abashed.
"It'll be fine, girls," he said, and sniffled.
And it was, overall. Taking the tonic, he would occasionally get sniffly or sneeze a few times if the brushbuddy made its way into his tower — apologetic or not, it did seem to be particularly fond of his writing materials, and once or twice his bed — but the girls held up their end of the deal, and they all benefitted from having a stricter cleaning schedule in the atelier.
"They would have been quite sad, if they'd had to get rid of the brushbuddy," Qifrey said one day to Olruggio as they were washing up. Olruggio had sneezed as soon as he'd entered the kitchen — the cooking spices in the air, as like as not — and Qifrey had blessed him merrily as usual. "Thank you."
"And break their hearts?" Olruggio scoffed. "Please. I didn't want apprentices of my own, but that doesn't mean I'm a monster."
Qifrey huffed a laugh, and Olruggio looked over to see the other man smiling fondly at him. "No, my friend. No, you are not."
"if i could make you write one thing" more stuff about your ocs! i haven't seen abe casey or bluebell in an age, i miss them ❤️
So, all of the responses that I got to this meme have expressed interest in my OC’s, which I found a bit touching. I haven’t thought about them in a hot minute, but it’s always nice to revisit and I ended up having a lot of fun with this. So, thank you!
Anyway, here’s 3k-ish of Jen and Casey. Up to their usual bullshit, hanging out in liminal spaces when one or both of them is drunk or ailing. Set seasonally, too, because you can pry Halloween from our cold dead hands :))
Somewhere, sandwiched between the tangled remains of her costume and eighty pounds of snoring pit bull, her phone was trilling at her. Jen rolled over with a groan, clawing her way back to consciousness with no small amount of regret.
The light that seeped in through the windows was still grey and diffuse in the chilly dawn, a small comfort that she hadn’t slept any longer than intended. However, she also remembered the sky just barely starting to pale when she’d staggered through her front door that morning. She had only managed to snatch an hour or two of shut-eye then, maybe. Less than she’d hoped.
Jen considered ignoring the phone until whoever it was gave up. The memories of last night’s revelry were still swimming in her brain and her bloodstream, her sore muscles and greasy hair. It could be someone who needed a ride, who’d lost a wallet in the celebrations, or even found something she’d left behind. All of them were solid options, but she hoped for none of the above. She really didn’t feel like driving all the way back out to the farm already.
Yawning, she tugged at the sheets until Tank shifted enough for Jen to free her phone from beneath his bulk.
“Thank you, fat ass,” she sighed at the oblivious dog.
Jen blinked down at the number flashing on her incoming call screen. It was familiar alright, but not anyone from her coven at all.
Huh.
She hovered her thumb over the accept button for a moment, gathering her thoughts and her senses. The cartoon horse that she’d assigned him as a contact photo ages ago practically danced at her, and not because she was still drunk.
It was just way too early to be dealing with Casey. Not that the inconvenience ever seemed to stop her.
“Hey, man,” she managed around a yawn, as the connection clicked through and she picked up the rustle of static. “It’s the morning after my sacred holiday and shit. You’d better have a damned good reason.”
“Your sacred holiday,” the voice on the other end of the line sneered. Jen smirked. She knew that would rile him. “I’ve a great reason, if you’ll come open the feckin’ door. I can see you’re home.”
Jen had already begun climbing out from amongst sheets, skirts and splayed-out dog limbs, so the remark wasn’t entirely a surprise. Still, she began rummaging for clean-ish replacement clothes with a little more haste.
“Maybe if you’d given me some warning,” she grumbled, cradling the phone to her ear as she wrestled on a pair of leggings that she’d refer to as… artfully ripped, but otherwise clean. She found an old, worn band hoodie that had once belonged to an ex, and deemed it a suitable pairing to her tired-wired and mildly cranky witch ensemble. “How’d you even know I’d be home, creep?”
Statistically and historically, the chances were low. She usually woke up in someone else’s bed, sprawled on their couch, or even in a stranger’s field on this particular date. The usual morning after the festivities, although she’d been oddly glad to skip it this year.
It seemed that the veil had stayed open long enough for one of its denizens to find her anyway.
“Lucky guess,” Casey’s grin practically crackled over the line. He chased it with a sharp and shameless sniff, which actually did prickle down Jen’s spine in a way she didn’t find unpleasant. Fuck. She’d already found herself warming to the rise and fall of his scratchy lilt. It did nice things to her sleep-hazy brain, and that wasn’t helping.
She needed carbs and caffeine, in very short order.
“That’s what a creep would say,” she mumbled, as she made her way downstairs. Odd, she still couldn’t hear the low rumble of his bike’s engine. It was the usual background hum to his phone calls at most hours. He’d been here a while, or was just really banking on her letting him in.
Jen ended the call and Casey’s chuckle, as she stepped out onto the slanting porch to pick out his figure standing in the lot below. He wasn’t hard to see, even through the early morning fog that had settled over the city. Casey’s dark leather jacket and scarecrow limbs outlined his usual, eerie silhouette.
It wasn’t until she’d trotted barefoot down the steps and started to approach that she saw Cash move behind him, nearly lost in the mists, and felt her heart rate shoot immediately up.
“Holy fuck,” Jen muttered, and was met with Casey’s cackle, too sharp in the morning calm. “Shut up,” she scoffed, embarrassed at the brief fright. She closed the distance between them, and let Casey draw her into a loose, one-armed hug of greeting. She bumped her head against his chest. “I wasn’t expecting a friggin’ horse, okay?”
Jen was used to her friend’s supernatural steed disguised as a vintage Harley Electraglide, however nebulously sentient a machine it was. Seeing that spell drawn back to reveal the dullahan’s ghostly mare as she’d been intended was… something else. Appropriately spooky, though.
She held out her hand as Cash swung her head around to give her palm a polite snuffle, her pale eyes glowing and breath whooshing cool over Jen’s skin. The apology for not greeting her sooner seemed accepted.
“Now, which one of you is wearing the costume?”
Casey’s laugh turned into a cough at that. He turned to smother it into the shoulder opposite Jen, though his ribs only jumped against hers for the first surge, quick, before he drew away and proceeded to hack through the rest of it.
Jen watched the brief spectacle, and hoped that she looked more unimpressed than concerned. In truth, she was feeling a mix of both.
”Jesus, man, quit smoking.”
“Ah, fuck off,” Casey sniffed and cleared his throat on recovery.
He hadn’t popped any stitches, gauging from the taut line of them flexing intact at his throat. That was good. Jen wasn’t sure she was ready for any detached head shenanigans at this hour. Definitely not in this weirdly affectionate, annoyed, and also vaguely horny state she was occupying.
She sighed. “D’you want to come in, or what?”
Casey sniffed again, and pinched the tip of his nose. He still had his own glamour in place, inhuman in its own way but not half so startling as he could appear, if he’d wanted to. Rather than those staring, lidless eyes and ghoulish teeth, he’d settled on looking squinty and vaguely congested. He sounded it too, his consonants blunted enough to nearly buzz.
He looked like shit, and Jen had an acute interest in dragging him inside. That was even before Casey had shaken off the irritation and circled around to the other side of Cash.
“Better not,” he chuckled, and when he reappeared again it was with a creased, white paper bag in his hands. Jen couldn’t be sure if he’d just had it set it aside on their grill, or if he’d pulled it from some extra-dimensional saddlebags she couldn’t see.
She didn’t actually care, once she recognized the logo on the bag.
“Is that…” she hissed, and clutched at the prize when Casey pressed it into her hands. A half-dozen bagels were tucked inside the paper, along with something set on top that was wrapped in foil and smelled of salt and grease. Oh, baby.
“Sure look, it’s Marnie’s,” Casey smirked. “Just stopped by to give you that. Now get back to your den, beastie. Y’look like a carcass.”
Jen ignored the remark, and the irony of being told so by someone who wasn’t strictly among the living. She was too covetous of the bagels. Marnie’s made some of the best in the city, and yet they were the biggest pain in the ass to secure on most mornings. If their delivery came with a rather macabre courier, she didn’t mind.
And if Casey had an ulterior motive to lurking around her front porch, well. She could give him time to get around to that.
With a roll of her eyes, she shifted the bag to one arm and reached to give his sleeve a tug. “Oh, I’m gonna, but bagels first. Park your weird horse where my neighbors won’t see and come inside,” she invited again. “I’m too cold and hungover to stand out here.”
Casey glanced down at the hand near his arm, quickly enough that it almost made Jen flinch. Almost. Maybe he really wasn’t planning on sticking around.
She never quite knew his schedule, where he was coming from or where he was going, and especially around the sabbat. It was probably better she didn’t know the details of the dullahan’s business, fae or otherwise.
The confused trepidation was fleeting, but enough to leave her on alert, sparking and curious as Casey sniffled again. He erased the moment by grinning his toothy grin and slipping the arm behind her back. With a light push towards the porch, Jen let him direct her.
“Well, now if you’re insisting. You’ve wooed me.”
“I think you’re just easy like that,” Jen teased, but she took the cue and led him back up the steps.
The last few days had been unseasonably warm, but the temperature had dropped overnight. She could barely feel her toes from even this short excursion, although that was her own damned fault for still living in Canada and not investing in a good pair of house slippers. She still kneed and pushed open the doors to let Casey in ahead of he. His legs could field the brunt of the pit bull dancing in tip-tapping anticipation just beyond.
As she closed up in their wake, Jen tossed a last glance towards the lot and noticed that the huge, spectral courser that was his ride had converted back to a white-and-gold motorcycle. Cash had sidled up right next to her tarp-covered project car, innocuous as could be.
Jen smirked, then turned her attention to where her guest was presently being assaulted by her own familiar.
“You’re some tool, look at ya,” Casey laughed raspily at the beast as he bent to thump Tank’s side. The dog leaned into him, mouth turned up in a panting clown smile while his tail threatened to break Casey’s kneecaps with its enthusiastic wag. “Not a scrap of dignity.”
“Not in this household,” Jen agreed. She glimpsed her smudged eyeliner in the reflection of the cabinet windows, and grimaced. She needed to remember to wash that off before crawling back to bed. Otherwise she was going to sail right past a smokey eye and into raccoon territory.
She set the bagels down on the counter and began to inspect the offerings just as Casey straightened back up. Jen found herself distracted by his inhale, although it was no real surprise to look over and see him pulling the lapel of his jacket up over his face, shoulders drawn.
Yeah, okay, he sounded like he’d been needing this for a while now, so…
“hh…hh! -- hh’AHTSHH-... shoo!!”
The sharp, defined pitch on the end did manage to charm a smile out of her. Casey seemed startled too, blinking in distress as he lifted his head.
His flagging expression crumpled again before either of them could comment. This time he sucked in a breath, braced both hands on skinny thighs, and settled for just venting the sneeze desperately off to one side.
“--hh’AHSSHH-sheuhh!”
“Bless you,” Jen offered. She found herself equally impressed and disgusted by the amount of glittering release backlit silver in the dim morning light.
“Thanks,” Casey sniffled. Between his accent and the shifting levee of his congestion, the word was nearly unrecognizable.
“You want one of these?” She prompted him as she circled back to the bagels. They could both use a distraction, maybe. She fetched the breakfast sandwich off the top, and peered back in at the selection.
She knew Casey’s usual order at Marnie’s: peanut butter, honey, and prosciutto on jalapeno, because he was a freak. She had most of those fixings in her fridge, she thought, or she could…
“--TTSSH’euhh!”
Jen winced at the quivering response, and looked back to catch her friend in an equally tremulous anticipation. He sneezed again, twice more, each time with a pressurized, spraying sound. Thankfully, he’d opted to direct these back into the lining of his leather.
When he finally finished off the impulse with a wretched “--TZSSHH-uh!”, he had migrated into the living room and sunk down onto the big, sprawling sectional that Jen and her roommate had finally pitched in for.
So far neither Tank, Heather’s cat, nor any of their chaotic acquaintances had ruined the thing, thank fuck.
Casey, too, aimed the last sneeze between his arms and his lap, and he stayed there for a moment afterwards, crumpled with defeat.
The dog had followed him to this point of collapse, and stood wagging at Casey now. The dullahan’s stooped shoulders twitched with a cough, prompting the clumsy swipe of a paw against his jeans followed by a low whine.
“Tank, leave it,” Jen warned.
The pit bull’s head turned towards her, ears pricked, so she rewarded him with a scoopful of kibble clattering into his bowl. Once he was distracted with his own breakfast, Jen fetched a fresh box of tissues from the kitchen closet.
“Here, catch.”
Despite that Casey’s expression was still slightly hazed and sneezy, he managed to snatch clean out of the air the cardboard box she pitched at him. One-handed, even.
Any style points he’d earned for the catch were immediately spent, as Casey began to immediately lighten the box of its contents. He blew his long, darkly flushed nose into a crumpled handful of peach Kleenex, looking as miserable as he did indulgent about the whole thing.
By then, Jen had finally managed to unwrap the sandwich while it was still warm, and taken a huge bite. She wasn’t actually that squeamish about what was going on with her friend’s sinuses, so she spectated shamelessly as he cleaned himself up.
Finally, Casey folded his long hands between his knees and hung his head with a sigh. He rolled his eyes up at her from the impressive shadows of their sockets.
“I’m alright.” He sniffed. “Wouldn’t say no to a cuppa, though.”
Jen shot him a finger-gun, already feeling invigorated from her bacon, egg and cheese hangover bomb. Casey could be a real pain in her ass, but he was also kind of the best.
“You got it.”
She filled and put the kettle on, then went to sit near him while the water heated. Casey tracked her movements with his eyes, but otherwise didn’t move from his slouch until she’d reached out and fingered a few loose blonde strands of hair back from his brow.
He leaned into the touch, like a lonely hound, so Jen caved and scratched her nails back across his scalp. Her chipped black polish disappeared amid the straw-colored waves.
“What’s going on with you?” She prompted, when he’d been sagging against her for a few lulling moments. She didn’t bother to check his forehead for a fever, since he always ran under temperature. “You got a cold?”
Bad timing, if so. She knew that Casey pulled extra long hours around this time of year, and it would suck if he was fighting something all through it. She’d learned a while back that his peculiar brand of undeath slash immortality didn’t come without some chinks in the armor.
“Mmm, it’s nothin’ – ah, stop,” he warned, lazily smacking her hand away when she pulled at his collar to check for stray burns. Healing tracts of skin from where he’d been warded off with a length of precious gold chain, or even a single pin pressed just so. No signs of his weird supernatural allergy present, though.
Casey sat up and away from her, fending her off with a glare. “Fine, fuck! I’m gettin’ over something, ya malcontent.”
Jen gave him a dubious look, and took another bite of her sandwich. She let him stare at her as she chewed and swallowed for a mulish, mulling few seconds. She was well aware that Casey had some kind of thing about watching people eat, but it didn’t bother her.
Fair was fair, since she was definitely falling for the whole sick, wounded animal thing.
“Really? Because it kinda sounds like you’re just catching it.”
At that, Casey’s expression dissolved into a vague resignation. He met her gaze, and looked so tired and impassive that Jen was struck with a sudden, almost uncomfortable awareness of the centuries and stations that divided them.
“What’s the difference.”
Jen frowned.
The thunk of the electric kettle turning off broke the quiet, and saved her from having to answer. She levered herself back up off the couch, then went to fix the tea.
Casey’s tea didn’t actually need much adjustment, since he tended to guzzle it black. She stirred a couple spoonfuls of honey into it anyway, finishing what she could of the sandwich while the bag was steeping. When she had admitted defeat and snuck a last piece to Tank, Jen crumpled the foil and pitched it into the trash
She brought the tea back to its intended, where he was bent back over his lap and digging his thumbs at the inside corners of his eyes. Trying to shift some of the pressure throbbing against his skull, she guessed.
“Here.”
“Ta,” Casey murmured, cupping his hands to the drink.
“Of course.”
Jen sank back down next to him. Any agitation he’d infused into his tone might have already dispersed, but she still scooted close enough to tuck a leg behind his hips and lean into his back. It was a side-saddle sort of imitation the way she’d clung to him on the bike, dozens of times before. It didn’t feel that weird, though, even when Casey turned his head just enough to regard her over the edge of his collar.
“What’re you up to, then?”
“Cuddling you,” she muffled into the leather seam she’d smushed her cheek against.
“Yeah?”
Jen pulled back to look at him. “Yeah, because you’re sick. And you brought me bagels.”
The faint lines that appeared beside his eye suggested the smile she couldn’t see from this angle. Casey twisted himself back forward to take a slow, rolling swallow of his tea. He settled a bony hand to her knee while he was at it, and squeezed briefly.
“I’ll try to do it more often.”
“The Marnie’s, not the getting sick,” she warned.
“Aye.”
They sat like that for a while, Casey slowly sipping at the tea while Jen warmed his spine and contemplated the rest of the day before her. She was an extra at the tattoo shop, today, and had purposefully avoided booking herself any appointments. She had no plans to drop by the garage, unless Abe called her specifically. She hoped he was smart enough to avoid that, too.
It helped, Jen thought, that the employee who was responsible for acquiring most of their less-than-legal inventory was currently slumped on her sofa, wilted and sniffling.
She didn’t ask what Casey’s plans were. Jen only broke from her lazy reverie at all when she felt his back expand deeply beneath her.
“Fuck,” she heard him exhale, his voice warping. “Can’d you…”
Jen leaned forward to grab the mug he handed off, in a bit of unplanned but intuitive choreography. Casey might not have much mass or muscle to him, but he still always sneezed like he was trying to dislocate something. The preparatory breath in was more warning than she usually got.
She held the hot drink at arm’s length from herself, where it was less prone to jostle with his imminent explosion. Not a moment too soon, either.
“heh--TZSSCH-euh!”
He snapped forward over his lap with it, leather creaking, then snatched a few layers of tissue to stack in his palms. “Uhh–...!”
Jen inched back further, giving him a little more room to spasm into the clutch of soft paper.
“HETSSHH-uh! … --EHTSHH–shhuh!”
Each one still whipped him like he’d taken a physical blow, but Jen could sense a subtle difference in the sound. Less vocal, less of his usual theatrics, it seemed more like he was operating on pure, exhausted impulse.
The suspicion held true when he smothered a last, anguished “--shhuh!” into the handful of tissues, markedly weaker than the rest.
Jen still waited until he’d given his nose a lusty blow, sniffled a few times, and seemed a bit more settled before she tried handing the tea back.
“Bless you, dude. Wow.”
Casey’s answer was a thin, raspy groan that was… hm, yeah. Still doing things for her, as it turned out. Jen needed to make some decisions here.
“Hey,” she said, drawing his attention back up to her through a wreath of steam, and the film of post-sneeze tears. “I think I’m gonna shower, then try for a nap. You want to join?”
Casey’s gaze stayed on her for a long moment, even as she watched his barely-there eyebrows tick upwards. Concerned, confused, pleased, or all of the above. She couldn’t tell.
Eventually, he seemed to shrug off his pall and unfolded all of his loose and jangling limbs. He got to his feet slowly. Casey towered over her even standing, but more so when she was still perched on the sectional. Jen craned her neck to look up at him.
His mouth twitched in the rare smirk that didn’t reveal his pointed teeth.
“And which part is it I’m joinin’ you for?”
Jen grinned. She held out a hand, and let him pull her up off the couch like she weighed nothing.
“The goal is recovery here, asshole, not kinky shower sex,” she warned, but left her hand on his wrist from where he’d hauled her up. He was sick as a dog, she was still more than a little hungover. Her fingertips poked under his jacket, stroking the cool skin where his pulse point should be. “You look awful.”
“Sure - snff! The tide wouldn’t take me out. But…”
Casey’s leering expression hadn’t faltered, and neither had the twinge of sinus pressure that brought a consistent sheen to his eyes. She had no doubt that he’d slam all associated symptoms into a lockbox of denial, if she’d said yes to the first part. She was also, equally sure that he’d keep his hands to himself if she asked it.
With a soft sigh, Jen reached up to cup his lean cheek, and was rewarded with a yielding tilt into her touch. Maybe the fucking question here was if she could keep her hands to herself.
this is simply a little scene with Aimee and Lola, very heavily inspired by my own walk home in the rain last night. short, sweet, and cosy <3
A rainy night in early September
It was only thirty minutes, a well-known thirty minutes that took her down familiar streets. When Aimee left the restaurant, it hadn’t even been raining that much, and the tipsy buzz of a few cocktails had made the prospect of a walk home through the rain-shiny city feel almost romantic.
The gloss had worn off as the rain had come down harder around ten minutes in. She had pulled her hood up over her dark hair and quickened her step, but felt the raindrops acutely as they found her ankles, bare beneath her long skirt.
By the time she reaches out to tap her fob to the main doors, to let herself into their apartment building, the rain has found its way past the edges of her coat.
In the lift, Aimee flips her hood down and surveys the damage. A few strands of hair cling to her cheeks, mingling confusedly with the violet highlighter she dashed across her cheekbones before leaving much earlier, sparkling with both rain and glitter. Her lipstick is smudged, just a little. The hem of her skirt is heavy with water and her shoes half-soaked.
She sighs.
The raincoat is the first to come off as she steps into the apartment, making her cringe as it sticks damply against her wrists. Lola calls out to her as she reaches to hang it up.
“Welcome home, babe! How’d the rain treat you?”
Aimee slips her shoes off before padding softly into the living room, where Lola is sprawled on the sofa, book in one hand.
“In the nature of rain, it rained on me,” she tells her matter-of-factly, before breaking off into a giggle. She’d thought the walk had washed away her tipsiness, but back in the warmth of indoors, she finds it floods back again.
She leans her arms against the back of the sofa, inclining her head so that Lola can brush the damp hair from her cheeks with a tut.
“It sure did,” she observes, “Dry clothes?”
“Mmhm,” Aimee replies with a low hum in her throat. She closes her eyes, content as Lola’s hand cups her jaw, smooths away the dark smudge of lipstick.
“I mean you should change,” Lola reiterates, amusement warm in her voice. Aimee opens her eyes.
“Only my hair is wet, really. Oh, and my skirt.” She deliberates for a moment before she gracefully steps out of it, folds it neatly and places it aside. Then, she rounds the sofa decisively and deposits herself in Lola’s lap, her legs bare, an edge of black lace just visible beneath the hem of her green knit shirt.
“Fuck, your hair really is wet,” Lola observes, wincing as it brushes her shoulder.
“It’ll dry.” Aimee curls herself in against Lola’s body heat. “What are you reading?”
Lola, sensing that she’s lost any chance of arguing, shows her the cover of the thick paperback. “Middlemarch, George Eliot. Kinda like if a modern soap opera was set in the nineteenth century and all the characters had names like Dorothea-”
Aimee nods along, a furrow between her brows, before she cuts Lola off with a sneeze. “hh’tshiih!” It’s delicate, caught in an elbow, but sends a shiver through her. Lola gives her a long look.
“Bless ya,” she offers, “Dry your hair.”
“It’s drying,” Aimee protests, though she shivers again. At that, Lola’s eyes narrow.
“If you’re sick, I swear-”
“You’ll wait on me hand and foot?”
“Actually, I was gonna say I would seek out one of those goddamn fucking rain gods, and-”
“Oh, Lola, no,” Aimee sighs, “Did you really forget about what happened with Rēn?”
“Yes, I remember the time I had a fling with a rain god, and no, my swift and brutal retribution wasn’t going to be against them in particular-”
Aimee giggles at Lola’s indignance, curling one arm into the sleeve of her cardigan. It’s spacious and it’s easy enough to wriggle her way in so that she’s half-wearing it too, their arms pressed together companionably.
“I thought the two of you p-parted on-oh-”
She brings up the other arm hurriedly to catch a second sneeze. “hh’TSHhih!” It leaves her throat aching, very faintly.
“Bless ya again. Yeah, we ended on alright terms. At least, they didn’t tear me limb from limb. Which is, yknow, a big deal from a god.” Lola presses a kiss to Aimee’s forehead. “Up, my love. Let me dry your hair, and you can tell me about your night.”
“What a romantic proposition,” Aimee mumbles, followed by a laugh as Lola tries to manoeuvre the two of them up off the sofa, both their arms still in her cardigan.
sooo if you followed me back in 2020/21, you may remember my immortal gfs Lola (werewolf) and Aimee (demi-god) (and also, coincidentally, immortals who originally hail from around the medieval period). whether you remember them or not, i suppose this is me reintroducing them with a bit of silly allergy-centric fluff! enjoy if you should so wish!
Bloom
“You know what they were really missing in the tenth century? Iced coffee.”
Lola swirls her iced americano, making the ice cubes clink gently. Tucked into the chair opposite her, Aimee makes a face.
“However did we survive?” Aimee comments as she takes a sip of her own drink, an iced latte, brows furrowed. “I don’t know how you drink it like that. It’s far too bitter.”
“It’s my masochist tendencies,” Lola replies, giving her a wink.
“Oh, they extend to your tastes in coffee, now?” Aimee retorts sweetly. The start of a blush blooms across Lola’s cheekbones, and she sticks her tongue out at Aimee before taking another swig of her unadulterated caffeine.
They keep their voices low, in keeping with the cafe around them. It’s new; quiet, cosy, late to open and late to close. It’s a novelty, a late-night cafe, even more so than the (to them) recent invention of iced coffee itself. It’s quickly become a rendezvous point, a space in which they often pass the liminal time between Aimee’s work day ending and Lola’s beginning when she takes graveyard shifts at the radio station.
The clock above the counter reads 7.47 pm. It’s made of pale wood and metal, in keeping with the rest of their surroundings. Light wooden tables with simple metallic legs, paired with soft, sage green armchairs; plain wooden countertops adorned with trailing green leaves, with all manner of plants and succulents.
The place is minimalistic with touches of comfort and brightness, lit by the soft glow of fairy lights and muted lamps, a lofi playlist humming quietly through the speakers. It’s a small area of calm amongst the bustling neon city, the brighter lights visible only from the windows that Lola’s eyes trail over idly.
“When actually was this invented?” She asks, tilting her head. A wisp of faded rose hair catches on her eyelashes and she blinks it away. “I only remember before and after iced coffee.”
“I think I read something about iced coffee originating in 1840s Algeria,” Aimee replies. Her fingers stray to the small plant in the centre of their table, touching the tips of its leaves delicately, her touch quietly loving. “Lilith and I were looking up the history of coffee when it was quiet at work the other day. You’d be surprised quite how many books there are on it. We were reading Coffee and Coffeehouses: The Origins of a Social Beverage in the Medieval Near East until someone came to ask us about historical records.”
Lola smiles, the points of her canines on show. “You’re so fuckin’ cute.” The sudden compliment makes Aimee laugh, and at the ends of her fingers, the little plant begins to bloom.
“Oh, oops!”
The two of them watch as the buds swell and burst open into tiny white flowers, star-shaped and flushed pink at their centre, where frail stamens shiver with pale yellow pollen.
“Again?” Lola teases, though she reaches out a hand to touch the underside of one of the blooms, carefully, reverently. The petals are soft and smooth, a little warm as though they’ve been bathed in sunlight. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, babe.”
“You made me too happy,” Aimee says with a smile, and interlaces their fingers atop the table. Lola brushes her thumb over the top of Aimee’s hand with an answering grin, watching the plant. Its leaves continue to gently curl, spilling over the edges of its pot.
“This little one’s going to need repotting,” observes Aimee. Lola hums in agreement as she pulls back her left hand from the plant, bringing it instead to her face, only to leave it there hovering uncertainly as she squints. Aimee’s eyes shift from the plant to her.
“Itchy?” She asks simply. There’s an apologetic lilt to her voice as she eyes the pretty little star-shaped blooms between them.
“Mmhm,” Lola manages, in the split second before she takes in a sharp breath and half-catches two sneezes against the back of her hand. Aimee feels her other hand jolt in hers with the sudden movement, fingers curling reflexively into her palm. “hehh’TCHT!-hh-heh’TSCHHh!” Her breath shivers back into its regular rhythm and she sniffles. “Fuck.”
“Bless you,” Aimee echoes, and suggests, “Perhaps we should move it?”
Lola hesitates. “But I like it,” she says stubbornly, even as she rubs absent-mindedly at the bridge of her nose and the sides of her nostrils. After so many centuries, Aimee is well-versed enough in Lola-speak to know that means she’s trying to stave off a sneeze - or perhaps, in this case, several sneezes.
“The flowers are pretty, but not pretty enough to risk you sneezing the whole way through a radio broadcast later,” Aimee reasons, breaking their fingers apart and cupping both hands around the plant and its pot. As she picks it up, she notices roots peeking out through tiny cracks in the ceramics. It definitely needs repotting.
“B-But-...” Lola starts again stubbornly, but her words waver. She’s squinting again, trying her best to speak through unruly breathing. “hehh-” She shoves her chair back from the table, ducking into her elbow this time. “heh’TSCHhii!-its’CHHHuu!-hhh…”
They’re more vocal this time, more throaty, and that’s how Aimee decides it’s definitely time to find a new position for the newly-bloomed plant.
“I’m moving it. I’ll be right back,” she tells her softly, but firmly. She stands and fixes her cardigan, halting its slip from her dark, freckled shoulders. “It’ll only take a moment, I promise.”
It doesn’t take her long to locate a space on one of the artfully arranged shelves and place the plant amongst some of its kindred, a collection of trailing leaves and fluffy-looking cacti. She leaves it with a silent wish for its continued growth and a mental note to mention to one of the baristas, before she leaves, that it needs to be moved to a larger pot. Along with an apology, given that she may or may not have been the unintended cause of its sudden flourishing.
When she returns to the table, Lola is sniffling, the pink of her nose beginning to match her hair.
“It’s done,” Aimee tells her brightly.
“Sorry,” Lola says. She scrunches up her nose, clearly still feeling the after effects. “You didn’t have to move it. Damn hayfever.” Her voice has an edge of a growl; frustration, seemingly at herself, at her inexplicable sensitivity.
“Don’t apologise.” Aimee finishes off her coffee, watching Lola paw at her nose, occasionally shivering to the edge of another sneeze before she sniffs and seems to lose it. “My sniffly little werewolf,” she says affectionately, reaching again for her hand.
“Ugh. Don’t call me that.” Lola bares her teeth, but it’s half-hearted, and she eagerly accepts the kiss that Aimee leans to press to her lips. It’s moments before Aimee feels her breath shorten and tremble, before she breaks hurriedly away.
“hh’ISHCH’uu!”
“Oh, bless you again! Are you done?”
Lola looks at her, disgruntled, from behind a sleeve.
a small and soft jmart love story, as told in mugs.
Moons and stars
The kitchen in the Archives is much the same as any other office kitchen Jon’s encountered. Windows that face onto little of interest, grey countertops and half-empty tins of instant coffee.
Accordingly, the kitchen sports the same collection of mugs that every office does. A handful with old Institute branding, the logo faded and half-scratched away (everyone says they had to scratch them out, something to do with that particular design making the CCTV go funny somehow. Jon doesn’t really believe it.) The usual white IKEA mugs, as basic as it gets, paired with a miscellaneous assortment of specific designs that no one quite remembers the original owners of. They pass from staff member to staff member and no one ever claims them.
Jon doesn’t have a mug of his own.
Actually, that’s not quite true. He does have the DILF mug that Tim bought him last year for Christmas. He had tried earnestly to explain that not being a father, he couldn’t possibly be considered a DILF, whilst Tim had laughed raucously and Sasha had tried to explain that no, Jon, it’s about the energy. Martin hadn’t been any help; just sat there giggling.
He uses it sometimes. Grudgingly. And never when he’s taking a statement.
Whilst the DILF-emblazoned mug is the only one he can stake a real claim of ownership to, Jon does have a favourite mug, in fact.
Several months ago, a few extra mugs turned up, pushed to the back of the cupboard like someone was trying to hide them. They’re a little wobbly in shape, imperfect, clearly handmade. But they have satisfyingly thick handles and are a comfortingly solid shape to hold. Their designs are delicate, simple, yet charming: one the colour of a dawn sky, another pale blue with fluffy clouds, another - and Jon’s mug of choice - a deep indigo with little moons and stars painted in an uncertain hand.
He often leaves it on his desk by accident, by virtue of using it so much. Only today, when he doesn’t particularly wish to leave his office, it’s apparently been returned to the kitchen. Of course.
The problem with the kitchen, on top of its being painfully dismal, is that people always expect conversation. Something that Jon simply doesn’t feel equipped for today. It’s barely ten am, far earlier than his usual break for a tea or a coffee, and yet he’s exhausted. Exhausted, and sniffling.
It’s with some trepidation, therefore, that he comes upon Tim already there.
“Morning, boss!” he says brightly, like it’s no consequence to him that it’s a dreary Monday. He’s filling a large cafetière with hot water. “Coffee?”
Jon feels it would be sensible to opt for tea, given his scratchy throat and budding cough. But when he weighs it up against the tiredness he feels behind his eyes, he decides that coffee may be his best bet after all.
“Yes-snf-please, Tim.”
He scrambles hurriedly for a tissue to press to his nose, thankfully coming up with one he’d thought to stuff into a trouser pocket. It seems as though he only has to move, and he starts sniffling.
As he moves to the designated mug cupboard, Tim gives him a sympathetic smile.
“Hayfever?”
“What? Oh.” Jon wishes he could take the excuse. It would be easy enough to brush it off as a symptom of the early spring and the ridiculous amount of pollen that’s simply everywhere. Unfortunately, he suspects the excuse will be harder to stick to in a few days’ time. He shakes his head.
“A cold, I think. I’ll try to-snf-keep my distance.” He fetches the mug with the moons and the stars from the cupboard, trying not to cringe at Tim’s awww of sympathy.
“That’s rough,” he says, beginning to pour out the coffee into what must be Sasha’s, Martin’s and his own mug of choice. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah? Please don’t hole yourself up in your office for three days, barely sleep and only let us in when you’re half-dead from pneumonia.” He holds out a hand to take Jon’s mug.
“That was once, Tim,” Jon says, and resists the urge to add and I’d do it again out of pure spite.
To his surprise, Tim grins when he receives the mug Jon’s chosen.
“You really like this one, huh? I’ll be sure to give Marto your compliments.”
“I-what?” Jon is both confused, and distracted. Confused because he’s unsure as to why Martin is related to his choice of mug; distracted because the vague itch at the back of his nose, that’s been bothering him all morning, is starting to make his breath shiver.
“You didn’t know? Martin made this one. The other handmade ones, too. I wouldn’t have guessed he did pottery, to be honest.” Tim holds out the mug, Martin’s mug, full of coffee, but pauses. “Need a minute?”
Jon holds up a hand, twisting to direct a sneeze into his right elbow. “hh’DTSCHH!” Half-stifled, it makes his head pound and his nose run all over again. Waving away Tim’s “bless you!”, he returns the tissue to his nose with one hand and takes the mug from Tim with the other.
“Sorry. I, hm. I wouldn’t have guessed, either.”
Martin had always struck him as. Well. Rather clumsy. Certainly far too clumsy for pottery, of all things.
“Thank you, Tim.”
“Feel better!” He shouts much too loudly as Jon leaves the kitchen. Jon hopes desperately that no one else has heard.
Back in his office, everything is mercifully quiet. He sits down at his desk with a sigh, one which catches at the end, fluttering into shuddering breaths, before his eyes are snapping shut. “hh’TSCHH!” It doesn’t hurt his head, this time, but his throat. He truly can’t win.
After a moment to blow his nose, he turns to his coffee, hoping that will at least help a little.
He wraps both hands around the mug. He’s always felt that he’s able to almost feel some tangible mark of the intent that went into making it. The care that went into its softly shaped sides. A warm sense of static at the back of his mind, a suggestion at his fingertips.
Jon had never before considered who might have made it.
He appraises the mug for a moment, takes a sip of his coffee, and goes about his day.
When they flee to the safehouse, the Institute’s collection of mugs is truly not something that crosses his mind. Mugs, in general, aren’t exactly at the top of his priority list.
It’s only when they’re unpacking their meagre belongings, trying to settle into the cabin in small ways, that he sees Martin extract it from his backpack. His favourite mug from the kitchen, with the hand-painted moons and stars.
“I, um. I thought you might like this,” Martin says hesitantly.
“That’s your mug. That you made?”
“Actually, it’s your mug now,” Martin replies. He smiles. “It’s for you.”
He holds it out and Jon can’t help but accept it like it’s the most precious gift in the whole of the burning, splintering world.
i know that jon would probably never ever take a sick day but... i mean what if he did??
marking this as part 1 as i'm intending to write a follow up <3
Pathetic (1)
When Jon calls in sick, Elias doesn’t pick up. Thank god he doesn’t pick up.
He knows he’ll hear it when he picks up the message anyway; the way Jon’s voice cracks and splinters around his words. But at least Jon doesn’t have to be on the other side of the phone as he hears it, and that’s some comfort.
While he’s at it, he texts Tim too. It seems courteous to let him know he won’t be around, seeing as they’ve all been under pressure from their workload throughout the past few weeks. It has the added benefit of meaning he won’t have to speak to the others directly - Tim can just tell them he’s out sick for the day.
He deliberates for a long moment about how to word it. The hand holding his phone tremors as a shiver works its way through his body, or more a full-body shudder, making the sore muscles in his shoulders twinge. Georgie always said he carried all his tension between his shoulder blades, and lately, it feels like she was right.
Taking a sick day.
Jon grimaces at his phone. He doesn’t want to elaborate, particularly. To type out the words, I’ve got a cold, or something similar - it sounds rather pathetic, in his own mind. Then again, he doesn’t want Tim to think he’s at death’s door, either.
He settles on a vague, under the weather, and leaves it at that.
What he doesn’t expect is the phone call part way through the day. He’s been napping on the sofa all morning, curled up under one of his thickest knitted blankets. Not quite sick enough to stay in bed all day, yet certainly not well enough to do much of anything at all except doze.
The only reason he answers the phone is out of worry that it might be Elias. Elias, with some unreasonable demand, or perhaps about to chastise him for-
“Boss! How’re you feeling?”
“Tim?” It comes out as a croak. Jon tries to clear his throat and, inexplicably, ends up sneezing, a sharp, shivering pair of sneezes into an elbow.
“Bless you! Gosh, you are sick, aren’t you?”
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, willing the cloying, lingering itchiness away.
“Did you think I was bunking off?”
“Ha! No, but I was expecting you to sound a little less like death.” Tim’s voice becomes serious, suddenly. “I was calling to ask if you needed anything, actually.”
Jon wants to say no. God, does he want to say no. He doesn’t want Tim, or anyone else for that matter, to see him like this. But.
But. His eyes stray to the half-empty tissue box on the coffee table. Usually, he would have been more prepared, only he hadn’t noticed this particular cold sneaking up on him until it was hitting him full-force.
He’s going to have to swallow his pride.
“Could you, um.” He takes a breath that makes his throat sting. “Tissues. Please. If-if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course!” Tim’s voice holds a touch of surprise, like he’s shocked Jon actually asked. Jon’s cheeks are burning. “Anything else, while we’re at it?”
“N…No,” Jon answers, but when Tim makes a noise of disbelief on the other end of the line, he adds hesitantly, “Orange juice?”
“You got it! We’ll be over with the supplies just after five.”
As soon as Jon hangs up, he processes Tim’s words a little too late. Wait - “we?”
He drifts in and out of sleep for the rest of the afternoon, managing fits and starts of rest before he wakes up coughing or having to reach for the rapidly-depleting tissues. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he’s already dreading having to leave the warmth of his blankets to let Tim in.
That turns out not to be an issue. He’s woken by soft voices and Tim poking his head round the doorway to the living room, brandishing a key at Jon.
“Still have your spare key,” he says with a smirk. “You forgot to ask for it back.”
Jon groans, which makes him cough.
“I’m sure that’s some form of GDPR violation,” he croaks, pulling the blanket back over his head. “I’ll have you reported to HR.”
There’s a soft oof as Tim sits down next to him on the sofa.
“I bring tissues as a peace offering?” He says, and that gets Jon to resurface again. He takes one box with a relieved sigh, whilst Tim places several more on the coffee table.
“Jon! Which shelf would you like the orange juice on?” Sasha asks, popping into the living room. Jon flushes.
“Top shelf, please. Thank you, Sasha.”
She gives him a thumbs up and disappears again, leaving Jon to observe self-consciously, “You brought Sasha, too?”
“Yep,” Tim replies, “And Martin. He’s making you a cup of tea already, I think. You sound like you could do with one. Or, like, a hundred.”
Jon fights the urge to hide back under the blankets, especially when the persistent itch starts up again at the back of his nose. He brings his knuckles up to the underside of his nose, taking a few experimental sniffs. It proves to be something of a misjudgement.
“hh’DZSCHH!-ghh.” When Tim blesses him, he gives him a dark look. “Was it really necessary to bring the whole team here?” He doesn’t say it, but the subtext is clear. To witness me, like this.
Tim puts his hands up in surrender, “Hey. They wanted to come. I wasn’t going to stop them!”
At that, Jon grumbles and sniffles into one of the tissues Tim had so thoughtfully provided. He’s about to say something more biting when Martin shuffles into the room, a mug clutched in his hand.
“Sasha’s, um. Rearranging your fridge, I think. I left her to it.”
“Rearranging my-”
“To fit everything in,” Martin adds, making Jon frown.
“How much did you-”
Tim shrugs, gets up, and stretches. “Only a few cartons of orange juice. And some soup. And, you know- basic things. Like milk. Oh, and a few other things…” he trails off vaguely. “I’ll go and help her,” he says, and Jon could swear he sees him throw a wink to Martin as he exits the room.
They’re left together, just the two of them. Martin hovers for a moment before taking Tim’s vacated seat on the sofa.
“Um. How are you feeling?” he asks as he hands Jon his tea. It’s pleasantly warm to the touch. Jon wraps his hands around it with a sigh that catches in his throat and turns into a cough.
“Never better,” he croaks out, and is met with Martin’s raised eyebrows. He lets out a breath. “Unwell. But I’ll live. Thank you for the tea.”
His words are stilted by embarrassment. Martin, unfortunately, picks up on it. He gives Jon a sympathetic smile, and says gently, “It’s okay to be unwell.”
“I know,” Jon says, teeth clenched. “I simply feel rather… pathetic, with you all around. Not that I’m not grateful for your-hh-your assistance-” His voice trembles, and he directs a harsh sneeze against his wrist. In his other hand, the cup of tea wavers, but doesn’t spill.
“Bless you.” Martin shrugs. “I know you probably won’t, um, agree with me. But I don’t think ‘pathetic’ is a bad thing. It just means you’re vulnerable.”
Jon just looks at him. Of all the times for a heart to heart…
Under his gaze, Martin flushes and his shoulders tense. Instead of anything more, he says, “Your tea will get cold.”
I think you wrote some Tim and Sasha stuff a long time ago? If you ever felt like writing more stuff with them, that would be adorable, although honestly I love any pairings (platonic or otherwise) that you write! :) Your fic with Tim from the other day was so good.
-softsleepysnz
catching up on some Tim-centric asks!! thank you so much, i adore writing Tim and i think Tim and Sasha deserve a lot of love so it makes me really happy that other people enjoy reading about them too! here is a little bit of Tim and Sasha for you <3
Balance
The two of them have an intuitive relationship, one that makes sense without too much thought required. Tim is the joker, flamboyant and never serious, whilst Sasha plays it straight, the balanced accompaniment to his chaos. It just works.
There remains enough space between the two of them for some flexibility, too. There are moments where they both give in to silliness, trying to muffle hysterical giggles without Jon noticing. Sasha meeting Tim’s level of ridiculousness perfectly and tipping them both over the edge into laughter they can’t hide.
Or moments where Tim is, for once, struggling to come out with a joke or some ribbing comment. Where he can't keep up with the urge to always have a pun ready, a grin, a smile.
Sasha recognises those moments without him having to say much, and takes him as he is. He feels her do so that morning, the quiet skim of her eyes as she considers him. He's half-slumped over his desk, has been since he arrived. There’s no motivation in his cold fingers to take his coat off.
“At least move the papers,” she chides him gently, moving to shift them away from his elbows before they fall. Tim groans, the sound cracking in his throat.
“I'll get to them in a minute,” he promises vaguely. His voice is rough and his mouth tastes of cough drops.
Sasha pauses. “Oh, Timothy.” Her dark eyes are gentle on his tired ones, her left hand lifting to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear, a smile gathering at her lips. “Is someone not feeling too well?”
He huffs. “Someone is feeling like they got hit by a car.”
“And then left for dead,” Sasha adds, nodding sagely. It startles a laugh out of Tim, and in turn a cough.
“I think they tried to reanimate me, actually,” he elaborates. He holds both hands in front of him, looking them over critically, “But they put me back together wrong.” For a moment, he continues to regard his hands, before he cups both to his face and shakes with a wrenching sneeze. “hht’SHUU!-ugh, god.”
“Bless you.” Sasha arches an eyebrow. “Would someone feel less like they were hit by a car and reanimated by unknown necromancy after a cup of coffee and some cold medicine?”
Tim sighs. Even that is raw on his throat.
“No coffee,” he says, with a slight grimace. “I’m not… I’m not sure I can handle it today.”
There’s a flicker of a frown on Sasha’s face, and he knows why. It’s unheard of for him to turn down a cup of coffee. Cut him, and he would probably bleed caffeine.
“Okay-oh, bless you,” she says as he half-muffles another rough sneeze. “Does tea sound better? I’ll steal some of Martin’s fancy herbal concoctions for you.”
He feels like he should have a witty retort for that, only he doesn’t. Tim closes his eyes. There’s the dull ache of a sinus headache beginning to branch out just above the bridge of his nose.
“Tea sounds great,” he says sincerely, his voice catching and making him cough.
“Theft it is,” Sasha says matter-of-factly. Eyes still closed, he feels her place a hand on his back, somewhere between his shoulder blades. Her hand feels warm through his coat. “Take it easy today.”
And he knows what she means. Not just take it easy on the work, but also, it’s okay to not be at your best today.
“Thanks, Sasha,” Tim says, and he means it. He finally shrugs off his coat as she goes off to steal Martin’s tea, shuffling around the papers on his desk, trying in vain to find a direction in which to start his morning work.
It doesn’t help when his breath starts to hitch again, in fits and starts, making his nose run uncomfortably. “hh-...” He sits for a moment, one hand fluttering vaguely around the vicinity of his face, feeling itchy and helpless. “hh-KTSSH-uh!” This time, he bites back an expletive, settling for grimacing and trying in vain to sniffle. He’s too congested.
It’s then that his eyes land on Sasha’s cardigan, which she’s left draped over the back of her chair. Tim barely thinks before he’s getting out of his own chair, picking it up and pulling it on. It clashes horrendously with his shirt, but it’s a soft and comforting weight against his shoulders.
When Sasha returns with his pilfered tea, she just smiles, and lets him keep the cardigan.
The sluttiest thing a man can do is sneeze helplessly then trying his best to let out a stutterish apology only for said apology to be interrupted by a second more desperate sneeze.
Cowboy with hayfever who refuses to take meds because they make him drowsy and he needs to be alert while he's working
Cowboy with hayfever who spends half a crisp fall afternoon constantly pulling the collar of his shirt over his face to muffle loud sneezes into so he doesn't spook the animals
Cowboy with hayfever whose partner has to quite literally drag him inside after he cleans out the barn and can barely manage to get a word out between fits
Cowboy with hayfever who spends the entire rest of the day half passed out on the couch with a patchwork quilt haphazardly draped over him and a box of tissues on the coffee table
Cowboy with hayfever out hunting, has an animal in his sights... and a sneeze ruins the shot
Cowboy with hayfever riding around with a handkerchief over his nose and mouth
Cowboy with hayfever at the saloon having his beers who sneezes more and louder while drinking
Cowboy with hayfever constantly sneezing his hat off
Cowboy with hayfever who can't take a tickle any more and so induces with a blade of straw/grass (you know, the tufted ones they're always chewing on in media?)
How sometimes you have a whumpee who just feels awful and achy and chilly, can't get comfortable and really really don't want to get out of bed because they're dizzy and their legs are all wobbly, and just need someone near them because they're lonlier and clingier than normal but can usually be comforted by a warm hug and some attention, maybe an extra blanket and a gentle fingers stroking their hair
And then there's whumpees who are so, so very sick they literally can't get out of bed even if they want to. Too weak and lightheaded to sit up on their own but so dehydrated they need someone to cradle them in their arms and help them drink, shaking violently from head to foot one minute and sweating through their clothes the second, barely even awake and half trapped in fever dreams that manifest as terrifying hallucinations the second they're conscious, skin horribly hot no matter how many cold cloths the caretaker gives them, unable to do anything but lie in bed with their eyes squeezed shut, whimpering in pain and discomfort
Someone whose voice gives away their cold as soon as they speak - either because they've almost lost it entirely, or it's changed in pitch and timbre, or they're just so stuffed up. This means that they have to apologetically confess to it, even if they're doing a good job of not looking as though they're under the weather.
"Sorry." Sniff. Swallow. "I'm getting over a cold."
someone chatting away in between a lingering cough after a rough few days of illness, too eager about feeling like themself again to be self-conscious about the stuffiness still lining their consonants
