A/N: Oh god, another fluffy piece. A fluffy humor piece. What is the world coming to. O.o

But the idea was there and it wouldn't be let go. And, iunno. It kind of makes my nonexistent heart smile. XD

This was written for prompt #22 – Rice.

2 - Discord

The bowl sits, quite innocently, on his nightstand, on a tray beside an equally innocent-looking glass of water. For the hell of it, it's a white bowl, and there are flowers painted on it, and a thin plume of what has to be steam rises from the inside.

She sits in a chair by the bed, stirring, humming softly through the vapor. "It looks like it's cooled enough." The spoon lifts, dripping rice porridge and horror. "All right. Here comes the choo-choo train, Leon."

He stares back, face a blank slate. His eyes widen a little; it only looks like slight shock, for all intents and purposes. He hopes she still doesn't know him well enough to see the fear in them, though he can already feel his dignity—would pride be the better word? Or even sanity, perhaps?—beginning to crumble.

"Here comes the WHAT?" He even has to fight to keep his voice level, to stop himself from rolling over to the other side of the bed—which isn't much farther from her at all, but maybe the thought counts for something—so he can ask her what the hell she's on about from a safe distance.

He realizes a little too late that maybe he shouldn't have opened his mouth in the first place, that maybe it's not safe to ask her questions like that. She might actually answer them.

"The choo-choo train," she giggles. Sure enough, he can feel the chill as it settles in his bones. "Open up the tunnel, now."

"Aerith." What was that about not opening his mouth? One part of his mind swears very colorfully at the other for slipping up a second time. "I can feed myself, you know."

At this, the spoon lowers back into the bowl.

"Can you, really?"

Ouch. He eyes the offending food item dubiously, and her hand by the tray, but she doesn't reach for that damned spoon again. Not yet, anyway. It's only a matter of time.

"Aerith." He looks her square in the face then, stares right into her eyes, because there's really no sense in emasculating himself any further. Dignity is precious as it is; his happens to be going down the drain with alarming speed. "I have a cold."

"I know."

"Not any sort of seriously debilitating disease. Like cancer."

He is careful to speak very slowly, to move his lips as little as possible, in case she gets it into her head to try something particularly nasty—like shove the spoon down his throat, for instance, though he knows from experience that that's not the worst she could do. He's also begun to choose his words with more care; if he messes up again it just might be the end of him.

She only giggles again. "And so?"

Damn. If it were up to him, he wouldn't be in bed in the first place. It's just a cold. It's not even a particularly bad cold, certainly nothing to stay in bed over, especially not when there are other things he could be doing.

But does she see that?

Of course not.

And where is he now?

In bed. Not working. Fighting to keep from being spoonfed that infernal porridge, if only to prove some sort of point.

She'd probably have been prepared to strap him to said bed until he stopped sneezing and complaining of headaches. There's that one part of his mind again, swearing at the other—this time for not having figured out in time that trying to argue with her is usually a lost cause, if not always.

"You really don't have to watch over me like this. I'm contagious. You're going to—"

You're going to catch it, he would have said, but he cuts himself off midsentence. He remembers trying that on her yesterday. He remembers her smiling it away, and lo and behold. Look where she is today. Look where she'll probably be tomorrow.

"I'm going to what?"

"Never mind. Don't you have anything better to do?" A cough. It turns into a choke, then a wheeze, but not for the reasons she must be imagining. He has to struggle to get his breath back. "Anything better than… this? More important?"

"It's funny," she replies, like it's the most obvious thing, and shame on him for not being aware of it until now, "but I don't. Not until you get better, anyway."

Silence.

He feels his resolve beginning to falter. Then again, it's not as if he had much of it to begin with.

"…Thank you?"

He figures he's been fighting a losing battle all along. The loss doesn't sting half as badly when she laughs—a little less crazily this time, he can't help thinking—and drops a kiss on his cheek. Does she mind that she almost certainly will catch the bug now, staying so close by?

Of course not.

"You're welcome."

…But at least the headache's gone away, right?

"Now, hurry and open up the tunnel for the choo-choo train. Your porridge is getting cold."

Not a chance in hell, really.