#ough. not sure how i feel about this one BUT i do enjoy a sickfic!!

[sighonaraa]

I love dialogue prompts, they're so fun! How about: “Don’t feel like it today.”

ignore me taking approximately 5 million business years to get to all the dialogue prompts i've got languishing in my inbox............ ANYWAYS.

They're halfway through the season, and the ground's gone hard with frost most days. There's a nip to the air that bites, Roy's got a pair of Phoebe's lumpy, misshapen mittens in his pocket, and he's about to tear Tartt a new one if the muppet doesn't open his door in the next two minutes. He pulls his fist back and drives it forward; the door swings open before they reach and he drops his arm. "Where the fuck," he begins, and has to immediately stop, because Jamie's got his forehead pressed to the doorframe and there's a grey pallor to his face that is not, in any capacity, fucking normal. "Sorry, Coach," Jamie says--slurs, really, mouth barely opening enough to permit the words to pass through. He uses his elbow to push himself up, like that's going to fix anything. Like that's going to make Roy forget the rest of it. "Couldn't hear'ya." Roy swallows the last dregs of frostbitten anger. "Jesus Christ," he says, which--is definitely the wrong thing to say, considering Jamie flinches against it, shoulders hiking to his ears. "M'sorry," he mumbles. His movements are slow, lethargic. His eyes blink with all the laziness of a cat in the sun, except he's not a fucking cat in the sun, he's a fucking idiot who's gone and worked himself too hard and gotten sick about it. "M'ready, though. To, uh. Run." He does a pantomime of a runner, swinging his arms back and forth, and almost keels over with the exertion of it. Roy darts forward to nudge his shoulder beneath Jamie's. "Careful, you muppet," he says, softening the sharp edges of his voice the way he does with Phoebe when she's got a fever. Actually... He passes the back of his hand across Jamie's brow. Hotter than a skillet. Christ. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me you're not feeling well?" "Huh? M'feelin'...m'feelin' fine, Coach," Jamie says, attempting to swing his head up. It's a horrible fucking attempt. "So fine. Look, m'runnin' right now." "No, you're not," says Roy. Jamie's nose crinkles. "M'not?" "No," says Roy. "C'mon, let's go inside." "Nuh-uh. Gotta...gotta go. Do the trainin'." "You--" Roy grits his teeth; contemplates his options. Snow's beginning to fall from the clouds overhead, and the world's been cast in shades of echo and memory. The lamplight reflects off the wet pavement. All the windows along the street are dark. "I don't feel like it today." "Huh?" "I don't feel like training today," Roy repeats. He lifts Jamie a bit higher, tucks the lad beneath his arm. Shuffles them both across the threshold into the foyer. "C'mon, Jamie. Let's get inside."