Ragweed season is upon us, my darlings, and you know what that means.

What? You don't? Really? Huh, well...It means my allergies are acting up and my immune system is down. Soooo...I have a summer cold. This, in turn, reflects on my writing!

SO SUFFER, ARTHA, SUFFER! HAHAHAHA!

I own my cold, which I have named Bernice. I also own Artha's cold, who has been named Pierre. Not much else, though.

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Cough Medicine

Artha sneezed for the 637th time in three days. He had counted. This was one of the worse experiences of his life! His nose was stuffy and running at the same time, his eyes watered, his whole body ached, he had a pounding headache, and his throat hurt and that pain doubled every time he coughed. There was nothing on tv and there was no one there to entertain him.

Sure, Conner checked up on him from time to time, and Lance had run around in a mysteriously obtained hazmat suit for a while (until Artha had thrown a wastebasket of snotty tissues at him and demanded he left). But both father and brother to our ailing hero had warned Kitt and Parm away, Conner because he didn't want them sick as well and Lance because Artha was being a grouch.

So here he was: alone with Jerry Springer reruns ("You transvestite -BEEP- get away from my man!"). Artha groped blindly for the tissue box and blew his nose again, depositing the lotion and snot-drenched scrap of paper into a rapidly filling wastebasket. Those stupid lotion-tissues didn't work anyway, and they just left his nose feeling gross and oily! Why had his father paid the extra money for them again?

Heaving a sigh, Artha curled deeper into the blanket around his shoulders and hugged a couch pillow to his chest. He wanted to sleep, but every time he laid down, his nose would just clog up and make him feel even more miserable. The dark-haired teen sighed again, thinking of strangling himself with the remaining tissues just to end his own misery. Making a noose out of flimsy paper was risky, but worth it.

Just as Artha reached for the box, a sharp pain struck him in the back of the head. Rubbing weakly at the spot he grabbed the source of his pain and stared at it. A box of strawberry cold medicine? A slow, condescending drawl came from behind him, "Well? Are you going to take it or not?" Artha turned to face the speaker only to see the tall figure of Moordryd Paynn stride into the kitchen.

He returned a few minutes later with a tray holding a bottle of water, a bowl of rice and some toast. Chicken soup be damned, this was good for a sick person. Plus, it didn't smell as bad if it made a second appearance. Noting that Artha was still staring dumbly at the cold medicine, Moordryd frowned.

"What, do you want grape or something?" Artha shook his head and proceeded to tear open the box and remove the bottle of bright pink liquid. Moordryd set the tray down on the coffee table and snagged the bottle from Artha's fingers after watching him struggle pathetically with the plastic seal for a few moments.

The white-haired teen poured the correct amount into the little cup and handed it to Artha, who took it with a grateful smile. Moordryd's frowned deepened, "Don't tell me that your buddies haven't thought of actually giving you cold medicine..." Artha looked up after swallowing the fake-strawberry flavored syrup.

"Okay, I won't tell you." He sat up a little straighter as Moordryd set the tray on his lap and instructed him to eat it and not throw it up later. As Artha began eating, Moordryd reluctantly picked up the small garbage can and emptied it out in the kitchen trashcan. He washed his hands before returning to the living room with the wastebasket and a fresh box of tissues.

Moordryd placed these offerings near the sick teen and then retreated to the far end of the couch to lean on the arm. They said nothing, and Moordryd took the tray from Artha once he finished eating and deposited it in the sink. Artha yawned and settled in his cocoon of blankets and pillows as the medicine finally took effect.

Moordryd muttered something incoherent and the ill one let out a sleepy "Huh?" Averting his gaze and leaning against the doorframe, Moordryd spoke a little louder, "I said: If you need anything else, call me."

Artha nodded drowsily and snuggled deeper into the couch and mumbled, "'Kay...Thanks babe."

Moordryd nodded and walked out the door, narrowly dodging Conner Penn as he went to check up on his son.

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Fin.

I'm delirious from this fever and my cold medicine tastes like crap. So I torture Artha to make myself feel better. Originally, it was going to be Moordryd that was sick and bitchy, but Moordryd's always bitchy. So I made Artha the sick one.

A cold always feels much worse than it really is...But that doesn't stop me (or Artha) from feeling miserable. Whatever brand of cold medicine that was...I want some.

After Artha became the sick one, this was originally supposed to have something kinky about "Nurse Moordryd" in there. However, my sick mind and my sick body couldn't come to an agreement and my fingers kicked my brain out and started to do all the work themselves. This fic is expressing my inner desire for some TLC instead of being stuck home alone with a box of crappy lotion tissues, a half-finished summer assignment for AP history, and less than a week before school starts.