Also using this one to replace a drabble I don't like as much shhshhhh. This was a request for Zero taking care of sick Harlock. I set it in some vague modern-day apartment AU.

Harlock took one sip of the soup I'd prepared before shoving the bowl toward my chest. "Could really use some alcohol," he said, stuffed nose warping a few syllables. I stared at him, waiting for the usual snort that followed his terrible jokes. "Just a shot of bourbon or something will do," he added when I didn't move. "It's more for function than taste."

Sure, I was an alcoholic, at least at the AA meetings, but this was absurd. I pushed the bowl back toward him. "No, eat your soup," I said. "No one in their right mind would put alcohol in chicken noodle. That sounds horrible."

He frowned at the broth as it returned to his lap. When he first called, I thought he was lying. Harlock never got sick. Sick was a thing for normal people, and Harlock was too annoying and full of himself to be normal. But when the door to the usually-noisy apartment above mine opened, he stood there wrapped in a blanket. His nose was bright pink, eyes watery and puffy. He sniffled every nine seconds on the dot. It was hard not to notice after four hours of waiting on him.

He took another sip of the broth, ignoring the spoon to simply drink from the bowl. After I spent all that time making it from scratch, he would eat it as-is if I had to funnel it down his throat.

"Really?" He asked with a frown. "I think it tastes alright with alcohol. My dad always put whiskey in my soup when I had colds as a kid."

Again, I waited for the punchline. I'd never met Harlock's father, but surely the man had enough sense not to put whiskey in his son's food. Surely no one was that incompetent. "No," I said. It wasn't much of a response, but it was all I could manage.

Harlock didn't share my concern. "It's good for you," he assured me, nodding. "Dad said it helps you get better faster. Sure helps warm you up despite the fever. Come on, Zero. I've got a bunch of stuff in the kitchen. We can share."

I placed my hands on his cheeks and stared dead into his eyes. "No," I repeated. "Alcohol does not help with colds. You are going to die young."

A grin cracked across his face. "That's the dream. Dying young and beautiful. The world will mourn my loss."

I released his face just to smack him upside the head. "Everyone will just laugh if you die from a cold."

"But that's why you're taking care of me," he said. "You would mourn me the most."

No, I was taking care of him because he warned he could "accidentally" cause another water pipe between our floors to burst in the dazed confusion caused by his illness. His apartment wouldn't take much damage, but it could flood mine. Such a bastard.

"You know what else helps with colds?" he asked as he flourished the soup spoon. "Kissing."

"I think you mean resting," I said. "Or being smothered by your own pillow."

"No." He stuck the spoon in his mouth, nodding. "Definitely kissing."

Maybe someday he would move to a different apartment. "It's too bad no one wants to kiss you," I sighed in fake sympathy.

"Hey," he snapped as I turned toward the kitchen. "Everyone wants to kiss me. I have to push people off me on a daily basis because there's only one person I want to kiss."

I dug around in his cabinet until I found the best bourbon he had. "It's too bad you can't clone yourself, so your dream can never be a reality," I called. "At least you can kiss your mirror."

"You're supposed to be nice to me! I'm sick!"

"I made you soup, asshole." I returned to stand in the doorway of his bedroom, knocking back the bottle as he stared on in offense.

He reached out his hands like a demanding child. "Let me have it too."

I hummed a no as I took another sip. "This is my compensation for taking care of you."

He didn't exactly look threatening when he couldn't hold a glare, a sneeze screwing up his face. "Your compensation is supposed to be a kiss from me," he said as he grabbed a handful of tissues. "And then I can take care of you when you get my cold."

On days like this, I wondered if he was actually a sadist. "See, Harlock, this is why you have to blackmail me into talking to you."