#sicktember day 25

[acasualcrossfade]

Pillows on the Floor

Sicktember Day 25:  Confused/Disoriented

Stranger Things: Steve Harrington/ Eddie Munson

Words: 500 | Rating: M | CW: mild cursing, mentions of violent nightmares, effects of violent nightmares, mentions of blood and physical harm

@sicktember

Summary: Steve is wary of sleeping next to Eddie again after Steve’s nightmare hurts the both of them.

Find me on Ao3!

--

Eddie was already in bed when Steve exited the bathroom. In the soft lamp light of the bedroom, Steve could make out the healing scratches criss-crossed over Eddie’s arms. 

“You comin’ to bed?” Eddie asked. His brown eyes were filled with concern. 

“Not tonight.”

Eddie’s shoulders sagged. “Can you at least talk to me?”

Steve paused. He’d given Eddie the silent treatment for the past few days; all he could see when he looked at Eddie was how he’d hurt him. It’d been three nights of Steve sleeping downstairs.

Steve remembered the entire ordeal. He remembered the dream and how he’d been tied down, the buzzing of a bone saw in his ears. He remembered snapping awake screaming hoarsely, then arms around him, holding him. Steve was confined again, trapped again, and he thrashed to get away, to escape. Steve clawed at what held him, fighting against Eddie’s arms.

It wasn’t until Steve fell against the cold hardwood gasping in deep breaths that he heard Eddie’s pained moans from the bed. 

It wasn’t until Eddie clicked on the bedside lamp that Steve saw what he’d done.

“Steve?”

Eddie’s voice pulled Steve from the memory.

“It’s okay, they’re healing,” Eddie’s voice said gently.

“S’not that.” Steve’s voice was low, but he carefully sat on the edge of the bed next to Eddie. 

“Then what is it?”

Steve kept his gaze on the floor. “I freaked out, Eddie. I freaked and I hurt you.”

“I was the one that grabbed you,” Eddie admitted. “Stupid move, but I didn’t want you to fall head first off the bed. Wasn’t thinking.”

“You were trying to help, and I hurt you instead.”

Eddie reached his hand across the blanket, but paused halfway to Steve’s.

Steve glanced at Eddie’s hand and then slowly closed the distance between them as he poked Eddie’s hand with his own. 

They clasped their hands together, fingers intertwining and winding together. For a moment, Steve relished in Eddie’s presence.

Then, Steve spoke the words that kept fear cemented in his heart.

“It could be worse next time.” 

Eddie’s hand squeezed his hand in response and traced Steve’s knuckles gently. “We saw some dark shit over there. You more than me,” Eddie said. “And next time, maybe there’ll be pillows on the floor instead.”

Steve looked up suddenly in surprised confusion.  “Pillows on the floor?” “Yeah, if you’re going to be falling out of bed, you’ll at least land on something soft.”

Steve blinked. He’d never thought of that. “Like the couch cushions?” 

 “Actually, that would work. Want to try it?”

Steve nodded and so it was set up. As Steve carried a cushion and set it by the bed, he felt a weight shift and lift from him. 

He’d have something to catch him. 

The thought brought comfort, and it was easier to crawl into bed next to Eddie. It was easier to nudge into Eddie’s embrace.

In Eddie’s arms, Steve found sleep easier than he had in a long time.

[revelationschapter6]

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.

[groundcontrol21]

Sicktember #25

Prompt #25 Acid Refux/Heartburn Alternate #2: Vapor Rub

Fandom: Musketeers

Title: A Helping Hand

Summary: Aramis has a bad cough, and needs to apply the 17th century version of VapoRub. The problem is, he doesn’t have an uninjured hand with which to do so. But he does have a Porthos.

Notes: Back to what I do best 😈🤧

Porthos eased the door to his and Aramis’s shared room shut behind him and hung his cloak on its peg. “What did the good doctor say?”

Aramis was seated on his bed, legs dangling to the floor. He looked up at Porthos as he entered. “The fingers on this hand are all broken, save my thumb for all the good that will do me.” He held up his left hand to display the splinted and bandaged fingers to Porthos. True to his word, only his thumb was free of wrapping. 

“And this shoulder was dislocated,” he said, gesturing with his broken fingers to his right shoulder, which was in a sling. “And the collarbone is broken, just as we suspected.”

Porthos nodded as he dragged a chair across the floor to sit closer to Aramis’s bedside. “Of course.” Aramis’s horse had spooked at the sight of a snake just outside Paris and thrown him; it would have been a miracle if his arms hadn’t been injured given the awkward way he had landed. “Pay him money to tell us what we already know.”

“Porthos,” Aramis chided. “He did an expert job binding my fingers.” His breath hitched and he turned at his shoulder. “Hihh’TSHH!”

“And that? Flu?”

Aramis shook his head, even as his cheeks were flushed feverish pink. “Bad cold, he thinks.”

“Mmm, now why don’t I believe that?”

“Heh’TCHH’uhh! Ahh… Snf!” He shook his head slightly, a bit like a dog trying to clear off fleas. “There’s not much to be done for it either way. Just needs to run its course.” Porthos tried to read the set of his jaw to see whether Aramis agreed with Porthos or the doctor, but his face, save for markers of illness, was inscrutable. “He left me herbs to steep for my fever and a balm to put on my chest for my cough.” 

Porthos followed Aramis’s gaze to the bedside table upon which had been left the aforementioned supplies. “Yeah, don’t need to be adding broken ribs to the mix.” As if on cue, Aramis hunched forward with the same bone-crunching coughs that had convinced them to send for a physician upon arrival to Paris long before any horses were spooked. “Christ, Aramis, that sounds bad.”

The moment he had caught enough breath to do so, Aramis fixed him with one of his terrible little smiles, the slight quirk of the lips that was meant to allay concern in the face of all evidence to the contrary. While it did work to banish Porthos’s concern, he was sure Aramis’s intention was not to replace it with abject irritation and the desire to put a fist in Aramis’s face. Which was, incidentally, precisely what it did. 

“The one thing he did fail to consider,” Aramis said, oblivious, “is that I have little way to apply it.”

Porthos had never made a reply quickly in his life. “I’ll do it.”

“Would you, Porthos?” Aramis asked, and there it was, perhaps the only expression on Aramis’s face Porthos hated to see more than that infernal little smile. It was the expression Aramis wore whenever someone offered to go the smallest bit out of their way for him, as if Porthos had offered to pilot his own armada in Aramis’s name instead of just rubbing a bit of cream on his chest while he was sick and his bloody arms were out of commission. It made Porthos want to punch him equally as much as hold him tight to his chest. “He said to apply it frequently. Every two hours.”

“Is the sky blue, Aramis? ‘Course I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, mon ami.”

“Idiot,” Porthos said, and perhaps it came out too fondly, for Aramis laughed all the while Porthos really, really meant it. He had wanted to smack the sincerity from Aramis’s thanks, were it possible. “You don’t even have to ask.” The man was an idiot if he thought all those years meant nothing, that he could not ask Porthos for help with something so simple, that he could not expect Porthos’s help without even having to voice that something was amiss. 

Porthos helped Aramis adjust so that he was reclined comfortably on his pillows, and undid the tie on his linen nightshirt, splaying open the fabric to expose the largest surface of his chest in order to apply the balm. Aramis watched him intently, dark eyes alight with gratitude and trust. Porthos looked away, busied himself with the jar of balm, twisting and twisting the cap and feeling it slip around in his hands. 

He had barely cracked open the lid when he was hit with a burning scent so strong his eyes instantly began to tear. “God, Aramis, what is in this stuff?”

“Rosemary, mint… A whole mix,” Aramis said absently, and the feverish shine in his eyes was all too apparent. “Sorry, my mind was wandering a bit while he was explaining.”

“Whatever it is, I think the whole of Paris might be able to smell you coming for the next week.” Porthos chanced raising the jar a bit closer to his nose, and he instantly regretted it. “God, it’s making my eyes water.”

“Really? I’ll have to take your word for it.” Aramis gestured to his nose with his bandaged fingers and gave two demonstrative sniffles, the sound completely waterlogged. “Can’t smell a thing.”

Porthos winced at his friend’s heavy congestion, but even so shook his head incredulously. “Consider yourself lucky.” Grimacing, Porthos plunged his fingers into the jar to retrieve a glob of the stuff, half expecting it to burn a hole through his flesh given the scent. When it felt no different to any other salve, he held his fingers up to Aramis, intending to ask the man if he thought Porthos had taken enough, but found Aramis had closed his eyes. Porthos shrugged to himself, figuring that he had taken as good a beginning amount of the balm as any.

As soon as Porthos made contact with Aramis’s chest, however, the man’s eyes flew open and he nearly jumped to the ceiling, his breath coming in rapid puffs. 

Porthos withdrew his hand immediately. “What is it?” Was the mixture burning after all?

“Nothing, ‘s just…” After a few minutes of quick, tight breaths, Aramis relaxed back into the bedclothes once more and reached for Porthos’s wrist. “Just a bit colder than I was expecting, is all.” Gingerly, he patted Porthos’s knuckles. “Continue.”

Porthos did, feeling the balm glide over the fevered sheen that clung to Aramis’s skin. He frowned. “Not so much that it’s cold, it’s that you’re hot.” With his non-greasy hand, Porthos palmed Aramis’s cheek, then his forehead, his frown deepening. 

“Tea isn’t taking effect yet, then,” Aramis said tiredly. He swallowed awkwardly around a cough, then tried to keep doing so in an attempt to stifle the mounting fit that grew in response. His throat pulsed painfully with the effort. 

When it became obvious that sheer stubbornness was not going to quell the urge, Porthos stroked a damp curl back from Aramis’s forehead. “Just cough if you need to, Aramis,” he said softly. “It’s all right.”

He leaned back, knowing at least part of the man’s reticence in not choking himself was borne of a desire not to cough on him. Finally, Aramis turned his head toward the wall and coughed, a wet and aching volley that left him a breathless heap upon finishing. Completely spent, he sucked in two weary breaths that culminated in the most exhausted sneeze Porthos had ever heard.

“Ihhh…hiiihhh…Ih’tschhooo!”

Aramis sniffled once in the aftermath, seemingly not having the energy to do much else. Porthos helped him sit up and sip some more water from his waterskin, the only vessel that Aramis, with his broken fingers, could come close to holding even with assistance. Afterward, he lay back against the pillows and motioned for Porthos to continue applying the balm.

Porthos sighed. “I wish you weren’t feeling so rotten.”

“It’s alright,” Aramis said in a hoarse little voice, and Porthos’s heart turned. Couldn’t Aramis see that it wasn’t? Couldn’t he see how Porthos would sit here rubbing medicine into his chest until Porthos’s own arms gave out, if there was a chance it made Aramis feel just the tiniest bit better? 

Porthos did his best to ignore the hot flush of emotion that accompanied these thoughts, tried to get lost in the rhythm of little circles, take more balm, little circles. He moved slowly, in all reality far more slowly than he needed to, but Porthos knew Aramis relished physical touch, most of all when he wasn’t well, and Porthos couldn’t deny himself the comfort in the intimacy either.

Suddenly, a bandaged hand came to rest upon his wrist. He looked up at Aramis, who was watching him with a flushed and frantic expression. “P–P-oohh-rthos! Snf!”

“What’s wrong?”

From the angle, Porthos could glimpse a glistening wetness beginning to slide from Aramis’s reddening nostrils. “I still can’t–snf!--smell it–snf!--but i-hihh–it’s making–snf!--m-my n-nose–Snf! Snf! Eh’HESHH!”

“Oh.”

Both the sneeze and the realization had hit Porthos in equal measure, but Porthos had been doused in a great many worse things in service of far worse ends. He made to continue applying the balm, but Aramis flapped his injured hand at him so carelessly that, had Porthos’s reflexes not been so quick, the man might have done even more damage to his poor fingers. 

“M-move! Ehhh’KSHHHOOO!” Aramis collapsed toward his chest, no doubt trying to contain the spray from the eruption therein. “Heh’TSHOOO! Ehh’KSHHH! Hehh…Ihhh..HIHHKSHHH! Snf! Hhh’SHHH’uhh!”

Porthos moved as he had been commanded, and retrieved two fresh handkerchiefs from Aramis’s store. He stood at the man’s bedside a moment while Aramis snuffled miserably, hesitating out of a fear of being too forward, but altogether willing to be the hands his friend needed in this as well. 

But Aramis gave him no such opportunity. He blinked up at Porthos with bleary eyes and held out his wounded fingers, voice raw. “Give me that.”

“It’ll hurt your hand,” Porthos said, even as he laid the cloth carefully across the bandages, unwilling to cause any more harm. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Unable to bend his fingers to grasp it, he all but slammed the handkerchief to his face, and the strangled little noise he made suggested he had done just as Porthos predicted. “Heh’ESHHHH! Heh’ESHH’uhh! Snf!” He lowered the handkerchief to his chin to let Porthos see his smile, but it was a tired and watery echo that lacked any of its usual charm.

 “I let you rub balm on my chest, but I draw the line at letting you blow my nose for me.” Clumsily, he emptied his nose in the handkerchief, hardly finishing before dipping violently forward once more. “Ehh’SHHOO! Snf! Oh…Snf! A man must have some pride,” he said stuffily as he lowered it.

“You’ve cleaned worse fluids off the rest of us,” Porthos pointed out resolutely. The sight of blood and infected wounds turned his stomach a million times more severely, and Aramis had dealt with those on Porthos’s (and Athos’s and D’Artagnan’s) behalf countless times without complaint.

“That’s different,” Aramis said hazily, his eyes drifting shut.

This was another variant of the conversation they had had a thousand times before, and this time, because Aramis was spent, his shoulder aching, his voice coarse as gravel, Porthos would bow out and let them not have it again. He placed the cover back on the jar and patted the uninjured side of Aramis’s neck, relieved to find at least that even after all that had transpired the skin felt marginally cooler. 

“Well,” Porthos asked, “how do you feel after all that?”

“Emptier,” Aramis said, huffing a sore laugh, “that much is certain.” He cracked open his eyes once more. “If we keep applying it to schedule, I think you may even be spared any snoring from me tonight.”

“If that’s the case, I take back whatever bad things I said about the doctor. Man’s a miracle worker.”

Aramis smiled, his eyes closing once more, and in minutes he was asleep, comfortable enough indeed not to snore. And Porthos was left behind wanting to shake him, because couldn’t he see that was what he was most concerned about? Aramis only snored when he was sick, and Porthos just wanted him to be well, to be comfortable, to be whole and happy. That was what kept him up at night, the care he felt for this man and the intensity with which he felt it. Not just a bit of noise from the next bed over; they were soldiers who slept on campgrounds after all.

Porthos would leave him now to rest, but in two hours precisely, he would be back to repeat the process all over again. 

[fanfictasia]

Sicktember Day 25

Confused/Disoriented

Spoiler: This is an excerpt from The Mushroom Strikes Back

Anakin keeps all his focus on bringing the fighter down without crashing. But it’s coming in too fast, and the controls aren't responding fast enough. It hits the ground full-force, throwing him forwards again, head slamming into the controls.

His vision is swimming and he tries to push himself up anyway, because staying in a crashed ship could be deadly, but even opening his eyes right now hurts. He needs to give it a moment to fade, and –

A rush of fresh air suddenly hits him, and Anakin blinks, trying to bring the world into focus around him again.

“Sir?” a clone’s voice asks.

He hasn’t known them long enough to tell who it is when they all sound similar, but when he listens closely enough, he can see the little differences.

Right.

He… crashed, and he needs to get out. Trying to blink away the dizziness - he must have blacked out for a moment – Anakin sits up, looking up at the clone peering down at him.

It’s one of the clone pilots, but he doesn’t recognize the armor markings yet.

“Are you alright?” the clone asks, almost awkwardly.

“I will be,” Anakin assures, clamoring out of his fighter, even as the world spins around him dizzyingly for a moment. At least it’s starting to fade a little.

Nearby, he can see the other crashed fighter, though that one is burning, flames licking dangerously close to the engine. The crash must’ve been a lot worse, even if he’s in better shape thanks to his armor. “Are you okay?” Anakin asks, eyeing him.

He seems momentarily taken aback. “Yes, sir.”

[faofinn]

25. Acid Reflux/Heartburn

@sicktember

Fao knew eating Chinese takeaway so  late at night had been a mistake. Him and Hars had both finished late after their shifts, exhausted and not about to cook. They picked it up on the way home, not walking in the door until about 9. By that point they were tired and starving, and curled on the couch, the food quickly disappeared. 

Full and content (and half asleep) the pair of them went to shower. After a long and frustrating day, the hot water was exactly what they needed. Fao slipped out for a smoke before bed whilst Harrison was in the shower, letting the dog out at the same time. 

The dog finished and looking for attention, Fao finished his cigarette and headed back inside. He took his evening meds, brushed his teeth, and then settled in bed with his boyfriend, content. Their day had not only been long, but emotionally draining too, and they spent a little bit of time talking softly about their day, able to offload on each other about their own worries. It was so nice, to have someone who got it. Their patients weren’t always the same, and the worries were often different, but there was a mutual understanding. Soon the conversation turned to lighter things, and not long after that the pair of them were asleep. 

Except Fao woke up a couple of hours later, nauseous and with a burning in his chest. There was admittedly a flutter of panic, concerned his AF was flaring again, but it eased slightly when he sat up, and as he woke a little more, he realised it was nothing more than acid. Of course it was. They’d eaten late, and Fao had picked a few of his favourites, with plenty of salt and chilli. He’d barely been able to eat all day, it was no surprise the sheer amount of food and the spice was setting him off after having an empty stomach all day. God, was this what getting old was like? Fucking heartburn. Way to make him panic in the middle of the night.

Rubbing his chest absently, he slipped out of bed, trying not to disturb his boyfriend and the dog. He padded across the room to the bathroom, digging around in the cupboard for some antacids. He knew there were some in there somewhere, he just couldn’t bloody find them.

Harrison had half woken up when Fao got up, missing the warmth of the bed. He figured Fao would be back in a few moments, but when he didn't hear the running of water and Fao didn't reappear, worry kicked in. 

"Fao? You okay?" He called, struggling to get his leg on quickly. 

“Mm?” Fao hummed distractedly. “‘M okay.”

"You haven't come back. What's wrong?"

“Heartburn.” He grumbled. “Can’t find the Rennies.”

"Heartburn?" Harrison's stomach flipped. "Are you sure?"

“Yeah. My own fault for eating too late and too much chilli.” He grumbled. 

Harrison had finally managed to get to the bathroom, and he wrapped an arm around Fao's waist. "Are you sure? Can you sit down?"

Fao leaned into him. “Hars, I’m fine.”

"You said that last time. Come on, sit, let me check you over."

“Seriously? I’m fine, I swear.” Fao said, but reluctantly sat down. “Can you at least find some antacids?”

He hummed, rummaging through the cupboards. "Where's the aspirin?"

“I don’t need aspirin, I took my meds tonight. I need fucking Rennies.” 

"But just in case."

“I don’t need it. My heart is fine.”

"You've got pain. In your chest."

“I’ve got heartburn because I sleep on my stomach. And I ate spicy greasy food just before bed.”

"Fine. Rennies now, then let me check you over."

“Yeah, sure.”

Harrison passed him the box before awkwardly crouching in front of him. "Let me check."

Fao took one from the box, unwrapping it and chewing on it. He winced at the flavour, but it would at least fix this problem. “Go for it. I’m fine.”

He took Fao's wrist in his hand, gently feeling for his pulse. He hated to admit that it felt normal, and Fao didn't look anything like he'd expected if he was having issues with his AF. Maybe Fao was fine, and maybe Harrison was overreacting just a little bit. As much as he would never admit it, their early wake up call with his AF had hit Harrison harder than he'd expected. Every stumble, every time he rubbed his chest, or stood up too quickly and had to steady himself had Harrison’s own heart racing, fear rising in his throat.

“All okay? It still feels a bit wonky sometimes when you take it but I feel completely fine.”

Harrison rocked back onto his heels. "Yeah."

“Can I go back to bed then?”

"If you're absolutely sure you’re fine?"

“I’m fine. This is just heartburn, go and find your steth if you’re so worried.”

"I don't want to leave you alone." He admitted, not looking Fao in the eye.

“I’ve got legs, I’ll come with you.”

"No. You can't."

“I’ll go to bed and wait there.”

"No, because then I'll have left you."

“Honestly, Tomcat, I feel fine. If you’re worried let me walk with you and give you peace of mind.”

"I just can't lose you."

“I’m not going anywhere. I’d tell you if I felt bad, honestly.” He stood up stiffly. “Come on, what can I do to put your mind at rest? Apart from an ECG, because we’ve not got one at home.”

"I don't know."

“Let’s just go back to bed, then?”

Harrison hung his head. "I can't."

“Hars, I love you, and I want to help you, but it’s the middle of the night and I’m tired. Can we go back to bed?” Fao said softly.

"If you want to help me," he admitted quietly, "you can help me up. I'm stuck."

“Oh.” Fao couldn’t help but laugh. “You idiot, come here.” He stood up and offered Harrison his hands. 

Harrison took them gratefully, struggling up to standing. "The ankle keeps locking up, I need to get it seen to."

“I can have a look tomorrow, if you don’t want to take it somewhere?” Fao offered. “Can’t promise I’ll help, but I’ll try.”

"It's okay. I'll just ignore it again."

“Nah, you’ll get stuck somewhere again.”

"You can just rescue me."

“I’ll follow you around then, waiting to scoop you up like a Knight in shining armour?”

Harrison leaned in, wrapping his arms around Fao. "Sounds good."

“A knight with a dodgy heart.” He murmured, leaning into him. 

"Better than one with no leg."

“We make a right pair, don’t we?”

After a moment together like that, the pair of them headed to bed. Fao curled up against Harrison, humming contentedly. He hadn’t meant to scare him, he’d just not been able to find the antacids. Now he’d found them, he felt better, and soon fell asleep again.

[empresskaze]

Sicktember Day 23 & 25 Tepid Bath & Alt Prompt Vapor Rub

Follow up to this Sicktember prompt ft Ambrose and Cecil.

It's late and this isn't beta'd.

~~~~

When Cecil suggested a bath, Ambrose imagined himself relaxing in a steaming tub, inhaling the herbs which soothed his ragged chest. Instead he was huddling in the tepid water which he swore wasn't as warm as Cecil said it was.

Cecil claimed it was because Ambrose's fever had risen but right now all he could concentrate on was not having his teeth chatter. He mournfully gazed up at Cecil who pulled out his pocket watch.

"A minute more, if you please." He didn't look down as he stuffed the watch back into his waistcoat.

Ambrose muttered under his breath, bringing his arms closer around his knees in a vain attempt to conserve any warmth.

Finally, Cecil unfolded the plush robe Molly had brought and held it with one hand while holding the other out.

Shaking, Ambrose reached out, placing his other on the tub hoping he had the strength to stand. The air chilled him worse than the water, shivering fiercely as the robe engulfed him, Cecil hiking the collar around the ends of Ambrose's wet hair.

"Molly has changed your bedding, Philip started the fire again." Cecil said in hushed tones as his hands ran over Ambrose's arms.

"Many...thanks." Ambrose rasped leaning in resting his head on Cecil's shoulder, pivoting his gaze down. Bringing up a sleeve he masked a cough into it. "I truly didn't wish...to disturb anyone..." His breath ended in another wheezing cough as he bent over, he felt Cecil steady himself as he gripped Ambrose.

"I know." Cecil whispered while he helped Ambrose right himself again, "Let's get you back to bed."

The walked silently down the hall, a few gas lamps lighting their way back to Ambrose's room. Twice he paused to shield his cough away from Cecil, who kept his arm firmly around the sick man's waist.

The fire crackled away in the bedroom now much more pleasant to sleep. Molly greeted the two.

"Fresh sheets and duvet for you, Mr. Beaumont." She smiled.

"Thank...you..." Ambrose rasped as he sat on the bed, Cecil pulling back the covers. "Please, return to your own bed now."

Molly glanced quickly at her Master, who nodded. "Yes sir." She said, "Goodnight."

Exhaling a small cough, Ambrose rolled back onto the pillow which sat to keep him upright. Looking over he went to reach for a handkerchief when his breath hitched. He managed to turn enough to muffle both sneezes into his elbow before grabbing the cloth.

Ambrose sighed as he nestled back, pulling the collar of his robe up around his neck.

"I'd hoped...the bath would relief a bit more congestion." He sniffled, rubbing his nose.

Cecil went to the bedside table, pulling open the drawer. He removed a small tin causing Ambrose to frown.

"Cecil...I do not wish to cough all night." He said twisting his handkerchief.

"I know Ambrosia but we must try to keep your lungs clear." Cecil said as he sat on the bed, his hand hovered above Ambrose's chest.

Casting a glare, Ambrose waved a hand dismissively before craning his neck up.

Dipping his fingers in, Cecil gingerly massaged the medicated balm onto Ambrose's chest and along the sides of his neck. The sensation sent shivers up Ambrose's back as his hand gripped the handkerchief tighter.

"There, just a bit to help you breathe." Cecil said removing his own handkerchief to wipe his hand.

"Thank you...Hart..." Ambrose coughed.

Cecil tried smiling but his grey eyes remained sad. "You still feel a bit warm."

Ambrose shrugged as his eyes closed, "I'll be fine."

Neither spoke and a few minutes later Cecil listened as Ambrose's haggard breathing evened out as sleep came again.

"Promise me." He whispered, taking Ambrose's thin hand cupping it to his cheek.

[fletcherwilbury]

@sicktember Day 25: Alt Prompt 4: Taking a Sick Day

Warning for Illness, doctor's office mention, lethargy, and weight mention.

[lhaagain]

@sicktember Prompt 25 - ‘I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It’s Fine.’

Set somewhere after S8

Frances woke and stretched, taking a few precious moments to enjoy the pocket of warmth beneath the covers. Her first prayer of the day was said before she rolled herself up to sit on the edge of the mattress and she didn't allow herself to linger there. Up onto her feet, pull on her dressing gown and slippers, washbag, towel and bathroom. By the time she'd washed and brushed her teeth, she usually felt awake enough that putting on her habit and getting downstairs for Lauds was not quite such a struggle.

She knocked on the closed door of the bathroom automatically, just to let whoever was inside know that she was waiting. It took her a minute to realise that she hadn't gotten a response and that there was no sound of water or movement inside.

Read more on AO3

[brideofkylosolo]

Sickteber Day #25

Enjoy!

[autobot2001]

You Deserve This

Sicktember one-shot 6/6

Fandom: Transformers Characters: Lily (OC), Sideswipe, Sunstreaker Prompts: Day 16; Consulting the Internet/Web MD, Day 19; curled up with a pet, Day 20; cramping pain, Day 25; confused/ disoriented Warning: None

"Bring him to my house," Lily tells Sunstreaker, "no one else will be here all weekend. You could tell Prowl you and Sideswipe decided to stay at my house." "I'm not sure if that'll work. We'll be there in ten minutes." Lily rushes to prepare the guest bedroom and her room for the twins. Uncertain if Sunstreaker wants to stay with his drunk brother overnight.

Sunstreaker couldn't believe how drunk Sideswipe is. Usually, his brother doesn't drink enough to get drunk. He watches Sideswipe struggle to walk. "Come on, I'm taking you to Lily's house." Sideswipe complains while stumbling.

Lily couldn't believe how drunk Sideswipe is. Is Sunstreaker holding him up or supporting him? She shows the brothers the guest room. Sunstreaker argues with Sideswipe to get him to take his boots off and get into bed. "Oh, I can't wait for you to deal with tomorrow's aftermath."

"He's going to be fun tomorrow," Sunstreaker comments, "maybe he'll learn not to drink so much. I have no idea how much he had. At least he called me." "Oh boy, I can hear Prowl yelling if he finds out." The two go to sleep.

Sideswipe wakes up with a list of symptoms of a hangover. He's tired, but also his dry mouth has him thinking he needs to get water. He tries to get out of bed, but the room is spinning. "Frag," he mumbles as he lies down "Stupid fragger!" Sunstreaker scolds. "Go away," Sideswipe whines. "Fine." Sideswipe hears Sunstreaker leave. He tries to sleep.

Just as he's about to fall asleep, someone headbutts him. "What the —?" Sideswipe realizes that it was a cat headbutting him. Sideswipe tries to get out of bed, but sitting up is challenging. He sees Sunstreaker left water and pain relief. He takes the pills and lies back in bed. He didn't think the cat would lie beside him, though not under the blankets. The cat starts purring. "Awe," Sideswipe hears Lily, "good kitty. We'll be downstairs if you get out of bed." "Hey, just wait until you're old enough to drink." Lily laughs as she leaves the room. The cat falls asleep with Sideswipe.

"… we'll be back tomorrow," Lily hears Sunstreaker as she goes downstairs, "well, Sideswipe likely won't be in trouble." "Awe, but now you're here. You could stay until Monday." "Oh, come on, Lily, I would have come over if you asked, and so would have Sideswipe." Sunstreaker hugs Lily. Lily decides to go back upstairs, curious if Sideswipe and her cat are sleeping. Sunstreaker waits for Lily, uncertain what she's doing. He didn't think he'd be shown a picture of Sideswipe and Lily's cat. He's not surprised Lily asks that the two paint the photo she took. "Painting from a photo is still weird but fun," Lily comments.

Sideswipe wakes up feeling better. He gets his phone that's on the bed, seeing it's two in the afternoon. The cat is not happy he got out of bed. "I don't want to get out of bed either. Sunstreaker is likely pissed." Sideswipe goes downstairs, not looking forward to seeing his brother.

Sideswipe thought he could sneak into the kitchen until he's slammed into the wall. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you could have been in?!" Sunstreaker scolds, "what if they called the police?!" "I was having fun." Sunstreaker slaps Sideswipe. "I should have taken you back to the bar to get yelled at. Then maybe you'd learn!" "Ok, Sunstreaker, he gets it," Lily argues. "I don't think he does, but fine!" Sunstreaker lets Sideswipe go. Sideswipe goes into the kitchen.

Sideswipe gets food but goes back upstairs to avoid Sunstreaker. Though he doubts he'll be able to until Monday. He can't leave now since his alt mode is still at the club.

The cat is happy to see Sideswipe returned and demands to be patted as Sideswipe eats. I could take a bus to the club and get my alt mode now. Sideswipe thinks. I'll still be dealing with Sunstreaker whether I leave now or not.

Lily is worried about how hard Sunstreaker will be on Sideswipe. She believes Sideswipe is being punished enough with the hangover. Add what Sunstreaker just did. "I think he learned to be careful when drinking," Lily argues. "Maybe, and next time, maybe I won't be nice and bring him here. I hope you'll be responsible when you can drink."

The hangover symptom worsens as the pain relief wears off at four in the afternoon. Sunstreaker is concerned seeing Sideswipe's struggle to sit up. Ah, frag, I hope we don't need to call Ratchet. Sunstreaker searches hangovers on the internet. Knowing he's possibly risking Sideswipe's health by not contacting Ratchet. What he reads has him partially believing Sideswipe is ok. He decides to watch Sideswipe for the concerning signs of something more serious. For now, Sunstreaker gets Sideswipe water. The three decide to order Uber Eats. Sideswipe just wants to go back to bed. "No, you need to eat," Sideswipe tries to find a way to deal with the returning headache, light sensitivity, and dizziness. Sideswipe rests his head on the arm of the vouch. The cat finds Sideswipe and rubs on him, "I think you have a friend." Sideswipe pats the cat but doesn't look at the cat.

Sideswipe struggles to eat. All he wants to do is go to bed. Sunstreaker decides half of what Sideswipe has is enough. He helps Sideswipe to bed.

Sunstreaker didn't know Lily followed them. "I don't know if he'll wake up, but we should leave these for him." Lily shows Sunstreaker she has a couple granola bars and water. "He could be asleep all night, but good idea." Lily puts the items on the nightstand and leaves the room with Sunstreaker. The cat jumps on the bed and gets comfortable next to Sideswipe. "Good cat," Sideswipe pats the cat and falls asleep.

Sideswipe wakes up at six in the morning, feeling much better. He knows Lily and Sunstreaker aren't up. He eats what Lily left for him and pats the cat. Sideswipe didn't think he'd fall asleep until he sees it's ten fifteen on his phone. His cat friend isn't around. Sideswipe takes a shower before going downstairs.

Lily and Sunstreaker are eating breakfast when Sideswipe gets downstairs. "Feeling better?" Lily asks. "Yes," Sideswipe replies, not hiding that he's not looking forward to dealing with Sunstreaker. "Leave him alone. He's been punished enough," Lily insists. Sunstreaker doesn't say anything as the three eat. They decide to stay at the house until three. That's when the twins will go back to the base. No one there will know what happened Friday night that led the brothers to stay at Lily's house.

[newwwwusername]

Fic title : I Caught Myself Digging Again

@sicktember 2023 prompt : Confused/Disoriented

Rating : Teen & Up Audiences

Fandom : Tales from the Gas Station

Additional tags : Terminal Illnesses, Fatal Familial Insomnia, Confusion, Disorientation, Mental Instability, Nausea, Dizziness, Losing Time, Blacking Out, Digging

Word count : 334

[nywcgirl]

[whumpcember]

Introducing Whumpcember 2022!

Everyone's heard of Whumptober or Febuwhump, Angstpril or Sicktember, but get ready for Whumpcember! Whumpcember is pretty much exactly like Whumptober or Febuwhump, except in December.

Whumpcember is born out of a love of monthly whump challenges but with zero time to complete them. I also want to complete these challenges, but never have the time! So I came to realize that, from an American perspective, December is the month I get the most time off. So, I decided to create this event for people who have too much time in December, but so little across the other 12 months. Of course, this is most definitely an American experience and not universal; so if you don't have free time during December it is still perfectly alright to participate! This event was just made to cure my December boredom, and anyone else's.

Now after that ramble, onto the actual rules:

Prompts should be answered with whump as the main focus (i'll let angst slide though, since it's similar enough to whump)

Fanfic! Gif! Text post! Fanart! Fan video! Any piece of media that you can possibly make that has whump counts!

You can use the prompts any time! Don't feel the need to rush

Though, prompts answered during December will most likely be reblogged

Post anywhere! AO3, Wattapad, Tumblr, or even Fanfic.Net! So as long as you make a Tumblr post with a link to the answered prompt it may be reblogged.

When posting onto Tumblr you can either @/ the blog or tag with #whumpcember2022 and the day's tag, such as #whumpcember2022 day1

Don't forget to add any warnings necessary, such as NSFW or sexual content

At the end of the month a masterpost will go out to all participants and a badge you can save stating that you are either a participant or completionist. In order to be on the masterpost though, you will have to fill out a google form at the end of month; don't worry it'll take two minutes!

I hope everyone has a fun time during the event! And if you have any questions shoot me an ask through the ask box!

(this is also my first year running this event, expect a hiccup or two)

Written Prompt List Below

-Main Prompts-

Day 1: Hypothermia

Day 2: Avalanche

Day 3: Storm

Day 4: Shortness of Breath

Day 5: “I hate you!”

Day 6: Separated

Day 7: Scars

Day 8: Faked Death

Day 9: Sacrifice

Day 10: “I won’t leave you”

Day 11: Clothing That Doesn’t Fit

Day 12: Broken Bone

Day 13: Fear of the Unknown

Day 14: Shaking

Day 15: “You’re A Monster”

Day 16: Bad Luck

Day 17: Icy Deep

Day 18: Betrayal

Day 19: Electricity

Day 20: “It’s Too Late”

Day 21: Self-Hate

Day 22: Closing In

Day 23: Stumbling

Day 24: Anticipation

Day 25: “Shouldn’t You Be Happy?”

Day 26: Free Falling

Day 27: Crash Landing

Day 28: Explosion

Day 29: Failure

Day 30: The End Is Nigh

Day 31: Slow Healing

-Alts-

Alt 1. Nightmares

Alt 2. Desperation

Alt 3. Deal With The Devil

Alt 4. Accidental Injury

Alt 5. “I Won’t Help You”

Alt 6. Revenge

Alt 7. Lashing Out

Alt 8. Secrets

Alt 9. On The Run

Alt 10. “I Would Die For You”

[darkstar225]

@woso-fan13 Updated Masterlist

Updated: 04 January 2024

I have no clue why I did this, I just love this writer sm and wish I could check everything in one place since I keep re-reading the fics lol

PS: If the writer wants me to delete the post and send it to you so you'll post it, feel free to message me! I just love the fics and felt like doing this :D

It didn't fit everything so check out @woso-fan13 for the other masterlist with the rest S2

Sicktember 2023

Number 1: Hopelessly Bad at Self-Care

Number 2: Quest For A Cure

Number 3: “What Happened To Your Phenomenal Immune System, Huh?”

Number 4: Hiding an Illness

Number 5: Preventative Measures (Not Taken)

Number 6: Sick & Injured

Number 7: “You’re A Jerk When You’re Sick”

Number 8: Persistent Fever

Number 9: White Coat Syndrome

Number 10: “The Only Place We’re Going Is To The Pharmacy”

Number 11: Beginner’s Guide To Faking Sick

Number 12: Home Remedy/Old Wives Tale

Number 13: Anxious Stomach

Number 14: “I shouldn’t be worried about you, but for some reason I am.”

Number 15: Sick in an Inconvenient Place

Number 16: Consulting the Internet/Web MD

Number 17: Magical Remedy/ Healing Potion

Number 18: “Wear Your Coat, You’ll Catch a Cold”

Number 19: Curled Up With a Pet

Number 20: Cramping Pain

Number 21: “But if you stay, you’ll get sick too.”

Number 22: Terms of Endearment/Nicknames

Number 23: Coughing Fit

Number 24: “Did you just sneeze?”

Number 25: Confused/Disoriented

Number 26: Forehead Kisses

Number 27: Uncooperative Patient

Number 28: “I should have stayed home”

Number 29: Side Effects/Adverse Reaction

Number 30: Patient 0

WHUMPTOBER 2023

Number 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”

Number 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”

Number 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Number 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Number 5: “You better pray I don’t get up this time around.”

Number 6: “Do or die, you’ll never make me; Because the world will never take my heart.”

Number 7: “I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds.”

Number 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”

Number 9: “Learning everything ain’t what it seems, that’s the thing about these days.”

Number 10: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”

Number 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”

Number 12: “I haven’t slept in days but who’s counting?”

Number 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.”

Number 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.”

Number 15: “I don’t need you to help me, I can handle things myself.”

Number 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

Number 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.”

Number 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Number 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”

Number 20: “People don’t change people, time does.”

Number 21: “See the chains around my feet.”

Number 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.

Number 23: “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.”

Number 24: “I’ve got a head full of chemicals; mouth full of ridicule.”

Number 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”

Number 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.”

Number 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.”

Number 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.”

Number 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.”

Number 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay’.”

Number 31: “I thought that I was getting better.”

Comfortember 2023

Safe

Sweater Weather

Leaves Changing

Warmth

Treehouse

Notes

Sick/Illness

Grief/Mourning

Aftermath

Sadness

Comfort Show/Movie

Dreams

Baking

Late Night Phone Calls

Plushies

Coffee/Tea Break

Heirloom

Cuddles

Loved Ones

Shopping

Relapse

Cry

Anxiety

Blankets

Rain

Friends

Soup

Flashbacks

Sleepover

The New Normal

[sicktember]

Welcome to the Sicktember 2022 prompt list!

Sicktember is a month-long, multi-fandom prompt event that is taking place in September! This event focuses on sick characters and their caregivers.

Please refer to our FAQ . If you still have questions or need clarification, feel free to send an ask on this blog, or our personal blogs @yes-i-am-happyaspie and @obsessionoftheday.

We are so excited about this event and hope to have lots of participation! We can’t wait to read what you all create with these prompts!

[Text Version of the Prompts Below the Cut]

30 Prompts!

1. ‘Do You Know How To Take Care of a Sick Person?’

2.  Homesick

3.  Painkillers

4.  Hangover

5.  'Great. Now I Have Your Germs All Over Me.'

6.  Sick on vacation

7.  A cry for attention

8.  Intense coddling

9.  Home remedy

10. Excessive use of tissues/ ‘Blow Your Nose’

11. Emergency Room/ Ambulance

12. Psychogenic Fever/Stress Induced Illness

13. Seasonal/Pet Allergies

14. 'I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It's Fine.’' 

15. Frostbite/Sunburn

16. Care Package

17. Syncope/Fainting

18. Nausea/Upset Stomach

19. Whining/Crying 

20.  Cold Sweat

21. ‘Does this look infected to you?’

22. Common Cold/Flu

23. Tepid Bath

24. ‘I Need You To Pull Over!’

25. Acid reflux/heartburn

26. Tickle in the Throat

27. Sleepless Night/s

28. Chronic Illness

29. Lethargy/Exhaustion

30. ‘Get Back in Bed!’ 

Alternate Prompts!

Alt. 1. Soft Pajamas

Alt. 2. Vapor Rub

Alt. 3. Cuddling on the Couch

Alt. 4. Taking a Sick Day

Alt. 5. ‘Can You Be Brave For Me?’

[woso-fan13]

Masterlist

Updated: 10 August 2023

USWNT

Make A Wish

The 3 P's

Everything is Going Swimmingly

Syrup & Strollers

Sleepless Sleepovers

Directions

Even if You're Little, You Can Do a Lot

What's In a Name?

Peanuts & Paramedics

Roadtrip

Roadtrip Part 2

Stuffed Rabbits & Regression

It's Not Drugs (At Least Not The Ones You're Thinking)

Everything Was Not Fine

New Year’s Eve

Adventures in Lelavators

Concussions and Cuddles

Baby Bunny

Catching Flights (And Also so Many Feelings)

It’s Fantastic

Fevers & Favorites

Trouble

Rough Day

WOSO

A Pale Face and Red Circles on your Cheeks

I Don't Really Know, But She Seems Fine

This is a Nightmare

WHUMPTOBER 2022

Number 1: A Little Out Of The Ordinary

Number 2: Nowhere To Run

Number 3: Hair's Breadth From Death

Number 4: Dead On Your Feet

Number 5: Every Whumpee's Needs

Number 6: Proof Of Life

Number 7: The Way You Shake And Shiver

Number 8: Everything Hurts And I'm Dying

Number 9: The Very Noisy Night

Number 10: Poor Unfortunate Souls

Number 11: 911, What's Your Emergency

Number 12: What Could Go Wrong?

Number 13: Can't Make An Omelette Without Breaking A Few Legs

Number 14: Die A Hero Or Live Long Enough To Become A Villain

Number 15: Emotional Damage

Number 16: No Way Out

Number 17: Hanging By A Thread

Number 18: Let's Break The Ice

Number 19: Enough Is Enough

Number 20: It's Been A Long Day

Number 21: Famous Last Words

Number 22: Pick Your Poison

Number 23: At The End Of Their Rope

Number 24: Fight, Flight, Or Freeze

Number 25: Silence Is Golden

Number 26: No One Left Behind

Number 27: Pushed To The Limit

Number 28: It's Just The Tip Of The Iceberg

Number 29: What Doesn't Kill Me

Number 30: Note To Self: Don't Get Kidnapped

Number 31: A Light At The End Of The Tunnel

Sicktember 2022

‘Do You Know How To Take Care of a Sick Person?’

Homesick

Painkillers

Hangover

'Great. Now I Have Your Germs All Over Me.’

Sick on Vacation

A Cry for Attention

Intense Coddling

Home Remedy

Excessive Use of Tissues

Emergency Room

Stress Induced Illness

Pet Allergies

‘I Might Be A Teeny Tiny Bit Sick, But It’s Fine.’

Frostbite

Care Package

Syncope/Fainting

Upset Stomach

Whining/Crying

Cold Sweat

‘Does this look infected to you?’

Common Cold/Flu

Tepid Bath

‘I Need You To Pull Over!’

Taking a Sick Day

Tickle in the Throat

Sleepless Night/s

Chronic Illness

Lethargy/Exhaustion

‘Get Back in Bed!’