A/N: There's some kind of cold going around campus (which I'm not-so-affectionately calling The Plague), and I caught it. So, being the sadistic writer I am, I decided to also inflict it on my favorite heroine. Poor Lucas.

Lucas, get in here. -W

Not again. Lucas Beineke rubbed his forehead and groaned, slumping against the wall of the upstairs hallway. A chunk of plaster crumbled under his weight, but he ignored it.

Movies always portrayed tending a sick wife as somehow cute. The ailing woman, usually a blonde, propped against several pillows and sniffling quietly while her husband brought her chicken soup and suffered through chick flicks. Though he'd never understood how the inevitable snuggling sessions didn't lead to the husband getting sick, it always seemed easy enough. Maybe even enjoyable.

Sick Wednesday was turning out to be an entirely different matter.

"You know," he called down the hall, "you can just call for me. I'm maybe six feet away." A moment later, his phone buzzed again.

Hurts my throat too much. Get in here. -W

With a sigh, he headed for the bedroom door, praying she wouldn't shoot at him this time. Mood swings didn't even begin to cover it.

Lucas stepped cautiously into their room, and was struck again by how little the situation resembled that in movies. If he was completely honest with himself, Wednesday looked...well, like a woman with a bad cold. Her nose and cheeks were tinged with pink (with a similar effect as a dramatic flush would have on someone less pale), her hair was a mess, and she glared out at him from the pile of blankets with half-lidded, watery eyes.

"Yes?"

"I'm out of tissues," she croaked. As if to illustrate the point, the floor around the bed was indeed littered with stiff balls of crumpled paper.

Grabbing the trash can from its usual place near the door, he walked over to the bed and placed it within arm's reach. "There. And I'll get you another box."

After rummaging around in the cabinet under the bathroom sink, he finally located a rather dusty box of tissues. She'd been going through them at an alarming rate the past few days; most of the house supply had been ransacked. He dreaded what would happen when they ran out entirely.

The young man closed the bathroom door behind him, crossed the room, and removed the empty box from the nightstand. Setting the new one in its place, he turned to his wife.

"How are you, Di?"

Her eyes narrowed a bit more. "How do you think?"

"Right," he replied. Better to get out of there before something sharp ended up hurtling towards him at high velocity. "Call me if you need anything else. Or text, or whatever."

He was out the door faster than any husband in those Hallmark movies would have been. Maybe it wasn't the most romantic way to act towards his sick beloved, but she'd regret it later if she killed him in a cold-induced fury. Resigning himself to an afternoon of grading students' essays, he started for the stairs.

And made it down about three steps when the black rectangle in his pocket vibrated again.

Need you again. -W

Another groan. "Wednesday," he called down the hall, "why didn't you just tell me what you needed when I was in there ten seconds ago?"

When there was no reply- verbal or textual -Lucas started walking back towards their bedroom, muttering under his breath. He reached the doorway- and was promptly struck with a flying, used tissue.

God, it's Doctor Who all over again.

"What was that for?"

The mound of blankets from which his wife's face was no longer visible shifted slightly. Indistinct mumbling came from the end nearest the pillow.

"What?" he said.

"For not staying." This was only slightly louder, but he was able to make it out. Walking closer to the bed, he raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

The blankets shifted and Wednesday poked her head out. Lucas was suddenly struck by how vulnerable she looked; sick, tired, and generally more like an abandoned kitten than he'd ever tell her to her face. It was disconcerting to see his Diana, normally so dangerous, looking so thoroughly normal.

"Lucas, I'm sick," she said hoarsely.

"I noticed," he replied.

"I'm sick, I'm cold, and I'm tired. All of these things are very irritating. And this whole time, you've been downstairs."

"Di," Lucas said, running a hand through his hair, "how can I be downstairs when you're texting me for something every five seconds?"

She coughed. "Downstairs, trying to get downstairs, close enough."

"Well, then where am I supposed to be?"

Looking away, Wednesday said quietly, "Here."

Oh. Oh, damn. He mentally kicked himself, but she wasn't done talking.

"Like I said, I'm sick, I'm cold, and I'm tired. And I need you."

He bent down slightly to look her in the eye. "But...I thought you wouldn't want me to see you like this."

"I don't. But-" Pausing, she frantically grabbed a tissue from the box just in time to catch an impressive sneeze. She wiped her nose, tossed the tissue into the trash can, and continued. "-I need you more than I need dignity right now."

This is weird. It was more like a scene from one of those movies than his life. Wednesday didn't do undignified; or at least, not that he'd ever witnessed. She was a warrior, an Addams, and-

And a human, he thought. Though sometimes the fact got lost under their strangeness, his wife's family were humans at their core. Which meant Addamses needed to be taken care of sometimes, just like everyone else.

With that in mind, he smiled. "Then I'm not going anywhere."

Lucas walked around to the other side of the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he crawled under the thick comforter until he was lying next to Wednesday. Gently, he pulled her close.

"Get some rest, Di," he whispered, pushing her hair back from her flushed face. She sniffed, but the corners of her lips twitched upwards slightly. After giving him a light kiss, she closed here eyes. Her breathing gradually slowed to the steady, quiet rhythm of sleep; unconsciously, she snuggled against him.

He kissed the top of her head. "Still not going anywhere."

- ONE WEEK LATER -

Di, I'm out of tissues again. -Love, Lucas.