#raffle prize for grapecaseschoices

[springsaladgaming]

The Best Medicine

Hey, all! I have for you all today a snippet! This was written for @grapecaseschoices as her prize for the Interactive Fiction Raffle for Palestine. Thank you so much for donating to a good cause! And thank you also for giving me permission to post your prize for everyone to enjoy! 🧡

This is a non-spoilery snippet featuring @grapecaseschoices's MC, Bianca, and Ansel.

The Best Medicine

July—the middle of summer. The perfect time for short sleeves, outdoor sports, and, apparently, one killer heatwave.

That last one is a particular kind of torture that has you seeking out the shelter of Undercover as the early afternoon rears its head. You aren't the only one; patrons, both new and returning alike, have decided to spend their day within the air-conditioned confines of the café. The place is busier than usual, enough that Teagan has stepped in to help Cherry manage the workload, even though he doesn't actually work here.

Strangely enough, Ansel, who would normally jump at the chance to help Cherry through her shift, is nowhere to be seen. You catch eyes with Teagan as he passes off a drink to a customer. The two of you have an easy understanding that rarely requires any words to pass between you; he nods toward Ansel's office, guessing at the question in your eyes before you have to speak it.

You step toward the back of the café, dodging and avoiding the clusters of people around you. The area around the door to Ansel's office, unassuming enough to escape the attention of visiting patrons, is secluded and quiet. As you lean you ear to the door, however, the sounds coming from within are less so. Even with an inch or two of solid wood between you, you can hear Ansel's grumbles clear as day.

The two of you are past the point of you needing to announce your presence, but you do anyway, giving the door a slight knock before you open it and step inside. Ansel is sitting at his desk, one hand against his temple, while the other clicks away on his computer. He looks up and smiles when he sees you, but not quickly enough to mask the furrow between his brows.

"Bianca. Good morning," he says. There's a slight strain in his voice that he's trying to hide, but you know him well enough by now to recognize it.

"It's past noon," you mutter as you continue studying Ansel and his surroundings. His hand isn't just resting on his temple; it's held against it with some pressure. And the lamp on his desk, which normally serves to illuminate its surface, is angled away.

"Is it?" Ansel removes the hand from his head to check his watch, wincing as he does so. "I hadn't even realized." He stands and shuffles about with some urgency, clicking a few more things on his computer and organizing some scattered papers.

Even knowing the answer he'll probably give you, you say, "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he says, and you can't help but roll your eyes at the obvious lie even as he keeps speaking. "I just need to check on Cherry. Lucia should be here soon to relieve her for lunch, but I should make sure everything is okay."

You step over to Ansel and put a tentative hand on his arm. "Teagan is helping her. And you're obviously not fine."

Ansel places a hand, soft and warm, over yours. "I am," he says, putting on a forced smile that somehow makes his wincing all the more apparent.

"You have a migraine," you accuse.

His smile falters. "I'm fine," he says again. "I've just been dealing with this shipping company all morning that lost several orders and—"

"And now you have a migraine."

Ansel sighs and smiles—wryly this time. "Is it so obvious?"

"It is to me," you say. "You should take it easy and get some rest."

"Work isn't going to do itself," Ansel mutters.

You raise a brow and give him a reprimanding look. "It will still be there tomorrow. Come on, let's go." You shift your hand to grab his and tug him toward the stairs. He hangs his head slightly and fidgets with your fingers between his, as if embarrassed to be caught in this state by you. To his credit, though, he follows without more fuss.

Once out of his office and inside his home proper, you lead him to the sitting room, which is thankfully draped in curtains thick enough to block out the blazing sun outside. Your hands only part when you sit him down and leave to get him some water. When you come back, Ansel is already lying boneless against the back of the sofa, rubbing small circles against his forehead with his fingers.

You sit down next to him and offer him the glass. He takes it gazes at you sweetly before taking a few sips. He seems to have left behind any pretense of being "fine," and now you can see the fatigue around his eyes and in his expression. "Thank you. I suppose trying to power through a migraine wasn't one of my better ideas."

You can't help but smirk at him. "That's assuming any of your ideas are good ones."

He laughs, though lightly enough so as not to jostle his brain. "Do you mind if I lay down against you?"

You shake your head and seamlessly take the half-full glass from his hands to place on the coffee table as he lays his head on your lap and gets comfortable. He's tall enough that he has to prop his feet on the arm rest to stretch out, even with you scooted as far as possible to the other side, but he doesn't seem to mind. He even kicks off his shoes over the edge of the sofa as he adjusts. Ansel closes his eyes, and a contented sight leaves his lips once he's settled.

You take the liberty of sliding his glasses gently off his face and setting those down as well before asking, "Comfortable?"

He nods, at least as much as he can with his head in your lap. "I didn't realize how much I needed to be horizontal until this very moment," he mumbles, his voice still slightly strained.

Rather than add to his migraine with more noise or discussion, you slip your fingers into his hair and rub gently at his scalp, which earns you something from him that sounds almost like a purr. The sight of an untroubled smile falling across his lips makes your heart flutter in your chest. You almost can't believe sometimes that he's this comfortable around you now, not when he used to keep such a polite and reserved distance—always kind, but never close.

He must be thinking something similar, even through the encroaching fog of his migraine, because he mumbles, "Love that. Love you."

You continue running your fingers gently through his hair, smiling even though his eyes aren't open to see it. "Love you, too."