Stupid writer's block.

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Fairly Odd Parents, or any of the fantastic characters.


9. Cough (Prompt 054)

"I am not thick! I jus' have a 'ittle cough 'sall" Anti-Cosmo sniffles, crossing his arms and frowning slightly at his wife, who is trying to get him to stay in bed and eat soup. Chicken noodle soup, of all soups. Eeyuck! He isn't sick!

"Yes you is! Now stop bein' such a baby an' eat yur soup!" Anti-Wanda says harshly, thrusting the bowl in front of him again.

Anti-Cosmo huffs, and poofs the soup to the nightstand. "I am not!"

"Is so!"

"Am not!"

"Is so!"

"Am not!"

"Is so!"

"Ith too!"

"No you ain't!"

Anti-Cosmo smiles a little, just to himself. "You're right. I'm not thick." he coughs once, but quickly recovers and strains to hold a coughing fit back.

His wife furrows her brow for a moment. "But . . ." She is silent, lost in thought. It is unfamiliar territory, after all. "Hey! You's trying ta trick meh again"

He plasters a mock-innocent look on his face. "Me? I 'ould nevah."

Anti-Wanda snatches the soup from the nightstand and glares threateningly at him. "I ain't gonna leave 'til you eat this."

"Alright," he smiles, and takes the soup from her, once again placing it back on the nightstand. Before she can move, he leans forward and pulls her into his lap. "Be prepared tah wait."

"Hey!" She yells, squirming. "Ya gonna get me sick too!" She may not be the biggest black cat of them all, but she knows that colds are contagious.

Unfortunately for her, he is both bigger and stronger than her, so she's trapped until he decides to let her go.

She finally gives up on trying to get away, and resigns to simply crossing her arms and pouting.

After a moment's contemplation, she moves and allows herself to lean on her husband. He wraps his arms around her waist, and unbeknownst to her, grins in an especially devilish manner.

"I told you I wathn't thick," he whispers in her ear, soft blue hair tickling his lips.

"Ya are sick, and I gonna get ya to eat that soup one way or anotha'!" Anti-Wanda wriggles, and her husband lets her go.

She stands, picks up the soup, and turns back to the bedridden Anti-Cosmo. To his annoyance, she scoops up a spoonful of the soup and begins to — dare he say it? — feed him.

"Dear," he sighs wearily. "I do apprethiate the sentiment, but ith's really not neccess-" he's cut off as she shoves the spoon in his mouth, ignoring the protest.

She places a hand on her hip. "It's neccess-whatever if ya not gonna eat!"

Anti-Cosmo splutters in a very undignified manner, trying not to spit the infernal soup up while trying not to swallow it either. Finally he grudgingly decides to swallow. "Wath that really neccessthary?" He coughs a few times, and shakes his head slowly.

"Mhmm."

He blinks at her. "If I didn't love you, you would be in tho much trouble right now."

"But ya do?"

"Of course I do, love." He smiles and ruffles her hair a little, and her hands bat his away.

"I jus' fixed that!"

He ruffles her hair again. "Well I just messthed it up."

She crosses her arms and gives him a glare with no heat supporting it. She tries to come up with some sort of comeback, but when she can't, settles for cramming another spoonful of soup in his mouth.

This time he glares at her. "You muth sthop doing that, you'll kill me."

She giggles, because he looks so serious but sounds so funny with his little lisp and stuffy nose.

"Ith isn't funny!"

She giggles again, and has to cover her mouth to keep from snorting.

"Stop laughfing!"

She continues to laugh, and he purses his lips. Then he gets an idea. A rather brilliant one, if he does say so himself. He quickly takes the soup from her hands and sets it on the nightstand (for the last time, he hopes). Then he pulls Anti-Wanda into his lap and tickles her stomach.

She shrieks in surprise, and her laughs become louder. "Ss- yuk yuk! Stop!"she wheezes, squirming. He continues to mercilessly attack her with wriggling fingers, and she attempts to turn and tickle his ribcage.

Soon they're both laughing, their stomachs are aching, and they're darting in and out trying to tickle the other while not getting tickled themselves.

After what seems like only a few minutes but in reality is almost an hour, Anti-Cosmo crawls, panting, to the far side of the bed. "Truthe?"

"Truth?"

He shakes his head. "No, not truth, tru-ss. Truthe."

The pink-eyed anti-fairy furrows her brow. "Hm?"

"Tru-ss!"

"Oh!" She smiles; she gets it now. "Fine. Truce." For a moment, she's silent. "Only if you eat some mo' soup though."

He narrows his eyes at her, but then relaxes them and shakes his head disapprovingly. "I muth thop teaching you to negothiate." He mutters. "Fine," he says in a louder, defeated tone. "Do your worst."

The bowl is passed to him again, and he looks down into it with disdain. He raises a spoonful up to his lips and eats it, cringing. He repeats this seven times, before stopping to glance at his wife.

Her look tells him that she's not leaving until he finishes the soup. He grudgingly begins to drain the bowl again, and then finally — finally! — it's empty.

"There, done."

She smiles and gives him a quick peck on the lips. "Good. Now y'all need some rest."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Do I now?"

"Mm-hm!"

A frown passes across his face — which is paler than it should be — and he folds his hands into his lap.

"Alright," he agrees after a moment. "But only becauthe I can tell that you won't thake no for an anther."

She grins and kisses his forehead. "Good boy!"

He presses his left cheek into the pillow with a half-hearted huff of exasperation. "I'm not a dog thoo be talked down to." He mutters.

She doesn't hear him, she's already gone to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what with the suspiciously not dusty duster.

And darn insomnia for existing, because Anti-Cosmo just can't fall asleep. He tosses, turns, even flips, but nothing works. Attachment, he thinks resentfully. My single weakness. So he grabs his wand and conjures the only thing that will help him fall asleep; he's sure that whatever she's doing can be finished later.

"Wha?" Is the first thing out of her mouth. Then something seems to fall into place with a nearly audible 'click'. "You!" She says, tone accusing and pointing with a dirty duster.

He widens his eyes in mock innocence. "Me?"

She narrows hers to pink slits, and turns to leave, shaking her head in disapproval. Which is her mistake — the turning to leave part, not the head shaking part.

Anti-Cosmo grabs her by the arm and tugs on it to turn her back to him. "I can't thleep," he says childishly, displaying his best pouty face.

The woman in front of him just raises an eyebrow as if asking his point.

"Stay?" He asks, but it isn't really a question. She pretends to be annoyed, but the act falters the moment his eyes meet hers.

Without so much as a single attempt at protesting, she climbs into the soft bed and snuggles into the covers beside him, laying her head on his chest. Okay, so maybe she's forgotten that colds are contagious, but does it really matter?

Meanwhile, her husband's insomnia is completely cured. He can feel his eyelids drooping, his mind fogging slightly, the once-clear images in his retinas blurring. This is the life. Sure, he may not be leader of the world yet, but this isn't a bad compromise. Not at all. He smiles contentedly, and allows sleep to cover him like a blanket.

Anti-Wanda's only regret? Well, if she could remember it, it would be that she has completely forgotten about the tea she was making for him. It's going to be stronger than Juandissimo after a workout. Oh well, there are worse things to forgot about, that's for sure.


1420 words for one of my favourite plots. The actual writing isn't my cup of tea, though. *Sigh* Oh well.

Accents are a real pain in the buttocks to write. Especially with spellcheck.

Reviews? I love them like people love weekends.