Warnings: Slash (Ambrose/Punk), Mild Profanity, Set in the Visiting Grave continuity (well after the current story - this is well in the future - so no spoilers for First Dance)


"Punkin?" Jon calls upstairs. There's unfamiliarly festive music coming from the stereo, and Jon's almost of the opinion that Punk must have hired a cleaner or something, there's no way the Sphinx bastard would be willingly listening to the Christmas classics. Yet, that seems to be exactly what he's doing, crooning along to Bing Crosby, and decorating a large Christmas tree. "Who are you, and what have you done with my Punkin Pie?" Jon asks as he flops onto the couch. Punk laughs, but doesn't say anything, still fixated on tweaking his tree, making it perfect.

"Plug this in." He waves at the power cord for the lights on his tree, and Jon stands, shaking his head. "There... Pretty isn't it?" Punk sits on the couch, and Jon almost collapses beside him, his head falling to Punk's shoulder.

"It's lovely... Why is there a tree?" Punk's arm wraps around Jon's shoulders, and laughs softly, his hand carding through Jon's hair.

"There's been a tree the last few years... I'm home to enjoy it, so I might as well have one, you know that. You've asked this question for how many years now?" Punk kisses Jon's head, his fingers still slowly moving through Jon's hair. The gentles touches, and soft music lulling Jon into a comfortable sleepy state, that lasts until he coughs, a loud hacking sound ripping through the tranquillity. "You sick, Cabbage Patch?" Punk pulls away, and Jon mourns the warmth he was snuggled up against.

"Cold... I'm fine. C'mere." Jon makes grabby hands at Punk, but he's up and off the couch, heading for the kitchen.

"Stay there, wrap up in the blanket." Punk calls, and Jon sighs, grabbing the blanket from the back of the couch. If he's not wound it around himself by the time Punk comes back he'll be pissed, the Sphinx bastard is pushy and protective over Jon more often than not. When he returns, it's with a mug of something steaming in his hands, and a concerned look creasing his eyebrows. "Here, drink this." He mutters, brushing his hand over Jon's forehead. "You're hot."

"Not as hot as you." Jon takes a hold of Punk's wrist, and presses a quick kiss to the inside of it. There've been some ups and downs in their relationship, but the one thing that hasn't changed is how much Jon loves the feeling of Punk's skin against his lips. There is nothing in the World that looks or tastes as good as Jon's Punkin Pie.

"C'mon, you're sick... No tempting me." Punk laughs, and Jon sighs dramatically, sitting up, and cupping Punk's cheek.

"No tempting, no touching, no kissing?" Jon asks, leaning closer, his lips almost touching Punk's before a cough sneaks up on him, and he pulls back rapidly, hacking into his hands.

"Nothing." Punk snaps, as he stands and walks to the kitchen. "I'm making you some soup. Pick something to watch." Jon takes the remote up, and ends up picking some old Christmas movie, if Punk's going to be in the Holiday spirit, he supposes there's no harm in indulging him.

They end up watching movies for hours, Punk looking like he wants to curl up with Jon, but not because every so often Jon's taken by another coughing fit, or pitifully blowing his nose with the Kleenex Punk set on the table. Jon hates being sick, he's always hated being sick, but with Punk not wanting to be sick too, it's the worst. He's sore and tired, and all he wants is Punk in his arms like a living hot water bottle, but instead the Sphinx bastard is curled around a cushion, sipping orange juice to try to ward off Jon's germs. Eventually, they decide to head to bed. Jon knows it's far too early for Punk's usual bedtime, but Jon's exhausted, and Punk actually looks pretty tired himself.

"You gonna sleep with me?" Jon asks hopefully, and Punk pulls an odd face, like he's genuinely considering sleeping elsewhere. "C'mon, I promise, my fleas are well trained; they won't bite you and get you sick in the night. I've missed you... Wanna hold you." Jon steps closer, wrapping his arms around Punk's waist, and Punk snuggles back against him.

"I'm gonna get sick... I can feel it." He sighs, and Jon smiles against his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Punk's head.

"I apologise in advance... The fleas might be trained, but they love the way you taste as much as I do." Jon murmurs as he mouths the back of Punk's neck, making him shiver in his arms.

"You and your fucking fleas... Every year you get me sick, every year I spend coughing and sputtering, with the sisters and Cabana laughing at me... One year I'm gonna avoid the Jon Good cold of doom." Punk sighs, and pulls his shirt over his head, turning in Jon's arms and kissing him deeply. "Not this year."

"Obviously." Jon laughs, framing Punk's face with his hands. It kind of astounds him how Punk remains the most beautiful thing in the World to him. Time has passed, they've been together for years now, but even when they were fighting, and dancing around each other, there was one undeniable fact: Jon loves Punk. Their love for each other is possibly the only healthy thing about them, the only whole thing about them both as people. Their love is strong, tempered, unshakeable, unbreakable, no matter what they throw at each other it's never flipped and morphed into hate. Jon's seen the line between love and hate, has seen relationships that tiptoe along it, but he and Punk have always remained in love, firmly in love.

"C'mon... Bed." Punk tugs at Jon's shirt, and getting some help in removing it quickly. "You wanna?" Punk trails off, and Jon is sorely tempted, it's been far too long since he's been with Punk, but this cold more than likely won't let him. Stopping to cough every five minutes is not sexy, as they've learnt in the past. The one and only time they'd tried to have sex whilst one of them was sick had resulted in Punk getting annoyed halfway through and making Jon a bowl of chicken soup. Colds just aren't sexy, no matter how you look at them. So even if Punk is undeniably tempting, half-naked and rumpled as he is, there's no way Jon can give in to that temptation.

"Not tonight, honey..." Jon laughs, then starts coughing. Punk's hand moves soothingly over his bare back, and then pushes against him lightly.

"In bed, I'll go get you some water." Punk leaves the bedroom, and Jon finishes getting changed into sleep clothes, and clambers into bed, wrapping as much of the blankets around him as he dares. Punk likes to be warm at night, and woe betide Jon should he attempt to take too many of Punk's blankets. Punk sets a glass down on Jon's side of the bed, then places a soft kiss on his brow.

"Hurry up, I'm cold." Jon mutters, and Punk laughs as he slips under the covers, snuggling up to Jon. "I'm sorry I'm gonna get you sick, Punkin."

"Hmm... Make it up to me on Christmas. I've got a list of shit I want." Punk laughs, his arms and legs wrapping around Jon. "Plenty of different options... Though ignore anything in blue... That was Cabana." Jon laughs, and wonders what exactly this Christmas list entails. It'd been something they'd started a couple of years ago, a way to make sure that they get something they want or need for Christmas, a kind of naughty/nice list for presents. The nice side of the list useful or sentimental things that they want, the naughty side a list of things of a more adult nature. The naughty side of Punk's list is often something Jon uses for when he's on the road for too long, and Punk's too busy or in a too different time zone to give him a private show.

"I'll bear that in mind." Jon kisses Punk's hair, he feels so much better for having Punk in his arms. Even the cold is no match for having Punk exactly where he should be, wrapped up in Jon's embrace.

"You back out tomorrow or the next day?" Punk asks quietly, and Jon squeezes him tightly.

"I'm home all day tomorrow." Jon doesn't confirm that the day after he'll be gone, the unspoken words are a given, and Punk nods against his chest, falling asleep quickly.

Jon blinks awake, his head is aching, his entire left side is warm, but the right is cold, the blankets and Punk on the left, there's nothing on the right.

"Punkin." Jon tugs at the blankets wrapped around Punk, trying to draw some over to himself, but all Punk does is groan, and burrow closer to Jon, pulling the blankets around himself more. "Punk..." Jon strokes a finger over Punk's brow, and frowns. He feels hot, his skin clammy. He'd managed to get Punk sick, even after all of Punk's efforts to keep himself from catching this hellish cold, all the orange juice he drank, he's still sick. "Punk... Wake up." Jon shakes his shoulder gently, and Punk groans once more.

"Go way." He mutters, pulling the blankets up, his voice is a stifled little whisper, and Jon smiles, there's a tinge of guilt in it, but he can't help but smile at Punk when he's in a mood like this. Middle-aged men should not be cute, but Punk is, he's unreasonably adorable when he's tired and cranky.

"Share the blankets." Jon says softly, he feels a shade better than he did yesterday, but he's still not feeling too great, and he's cold.

"Here." Punk moves over Jon, dragging his blankets with him to rest on Jon's chest, his head under Jon's chin. His skin all over feels clammy and hot, it seems Punk's caught this illness far worse than Jon ever had.

"Punkin... You sick?" Jon thinks it's a stupid question, and the way Punk huffs, confirms it, his breath heavy and warm on Jon's skin. "I'm sorry." He strokes Punk's clammy skin gently, trying to soothe him enough so that he can sleep again. It seems like it works, and Jon lies contently still beneath his Sphinx bastard, carefully thinking of nothing but how warm, and comfortable he feels.

"Urgh... You asshole." Punk's groaning wakes Jon up, and he sits up once he realises that Punk's not curled up in his arms anymore. Instead, he's standing drying his hair, clearly not long showered, and dressed in thick flannel pyjamas. "You're fucking asshole, you gave me the plague!" Punk snarls, and Jon smiles slightly, holding his hand out to Punk.

"C'mere Punkin... Lemme keep you warm." Punk blows his nose in a tissue, and shakes his head. "Punkin..." Jon tries wheedling, but it seems like Punk is set in his decision to not snuggle up with Jon. He grabs the thick comforter from the bed, and leaves the room, dragging it with him. "Where are you going?" Jon calls after him, wrapping the remaining blankets around himself, and trailing behind Punk.

"Couch... Gonna watch TV." Punk's voice is thick with mucus, and Jon feels briefly sorry about that. If he'd not come home sick in the first place, Punk wouldn't have caught this cold.

"I'll come with you." Jon snags his cell, texting his way to the living room, curling up on the couch at Punk's side to finish the conversation.

Colt... I have a favour. - sent

What? - Punkin 3.14's Mom

I'm sick... Punk's sick... Look after us like a good mother hen. -sent

You're both sick? Fine... I'll bring you food and play nurse for a little bit, but I'm not staying, I can't get sick too. - Punkin 3.14's Mom

Thankssssss - sent

It takes Colt maybe a half hour to show up, some takeaway soup, and sandwiches with him.

"Wow... You both look like shit." He laughs, and Jon stares at him. He's wearing one of those Asian facemask things, and Punk is choking on laughter at him. "What? I can't get sick, I have to work! Asshole. Here I am looking after you, like a good best-"

"Thank you, Bana." Punk interrupts him, and Colt seems placated. The Saints have an innate ability to rile each other's tempers up, and soothe them back down with just a word. It's something Jon wishes he could learn, the art of smoothing over an argument without having to get the Chicago bred bastard cupid to intervene, but Colt's intervention has stopped a lot of stupidity on both Jon's and Punk's parts. Cabana hands Punk his food first, hovering nervously for a few seconds before passing Jon his.

"How'd you get sick?" The question is clearly directed at Punk, and Jon busies himself with eating, half-watching the TV, half-listening as Punk explains that yesterday Jon had come home ill, and Punk had caught this cold from him.

"If it makes you feel any better, Cabana, I've gotta wrestle tomorrow." Jon smiles miserably, and Colt frowns.

"You're gonna be alright by then? You look terrible, Gerbil Cheeks... You should stay home." Cabana takes the trash from both Punk and Jon, a worried little frown on his face.

"I gotta pay the bills." Jon laughs, and Punk tries, but ends up coughing, getting handed a cup of tea for his throat.

"There." Cabana sets a teapot down on the table, and a cup for Jon. "You top that up with hot water when it's empty, should be good for three pots." He looks proud of himself, and Jon isn't going to ask what's in this tea. It seems strangely medicinal, and he's learned not to question the weird shit the Saints find when they're left to their own devices. "There's some more soup in the fridge, and I got you a loaf of that bread you like." Cabana's hand is resting on Punk's forehead as he talks, his voice muffled by the facemask. He turns to Jon with a stern look in his eye. "You take care of him... I've only got one Punkers." Cabana ruffles Jon's hair, getting a glare from Jon, and a grin from Punk.

"You come over and nurse me when Cabbage Patch is gone?" Punk calls to the retreating Cabana, and there's a laugh from the Chicago bred bastard best friend.

"I'm bringing you movies you've never seen and will complain about... And something with garlic and chilli in it... I heard it was good for colds." Cabana shouts back, and Jon shakes his head. They really could have these strange shouted conversations before Colt's trying to leave, but it never seems to occur to them.

"I want popcorn!" Punk grins, and Jon gives up, taking the remote up, flicking through the channels.

"Yeah, yeah... And don't worry Gerbil Cheeks. I'll get him fixed up for when you're home next. Later!" There's the sound of the door closing, and then nothing but the sounds of the TV in the quiet of the house.

"Will you be home for Christmas?" Punk asks softly, his voice quiet and gentle. Jon turns to look at him, there's an oddly hopeful look on Punk's face, but Jon has no idea if he'll be able to make it home for Christmas this year. He wants to, but as ever his life tries to get between them. Life is always trying to get between them, and has succeeded on more than one occasion. "It's fine if you can't." Punk mutters, settling down against the arm on his side of the couch. He looks so small, and faraway, and Jon's sick of being so denied his Punkin Pie. He sits up with a sigh, and shakes his head, pulling Punk over to rest against him.

"This year, I'll be home, I promise." Jon sounds firm, and he means it, he's sick of being so far from Punk so often. Life has taken them down such separate professional paths over the years they've been together, and this year Jon is determined that he'll watch Punk unwrap his Christmas present in person instead of over the Internet. He finally has enough stroke to get some time to spend with him Punkin over the Holiday. This year he'll have Christmas at home in person, and not only online, and in his dreams.


Thank you to my Rebllecherry, guest and littleone1389 for the reviews. :3

Fourth we have I'll Be Home For Christmas. This was requested by my dear littleone1389. I can only hope it fit your thoughts! (I had to throw the fleas in for you!)

Not much is set in stone for these fics - so if you'd like to fire me a song and pairing combo in a PM, I'll have a listen and see what I can come up with.

You can't give me an apple for Christmas like my students are already doing , but you can give me a review! ;)