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The fic for the prompt I claimed is still not done because I suck because prep for this afternoon's choir concert has been eating my life this week, but here's a little ficlet to the prompt "Anya's attempt at comfort."
Title: Slightly Romantic
Pairing/Rating: Giles/Anya, all audiences. Okay, Teen for references to adult activities.
Word Count: 542
Summary: Anya looks on the bright side. Posted for the Giles H/C Ficathon.
After this many years Anya knew she should have gotten used to it, but she still hated catching cold. She hated everything about it - the headache and the scratchy throat and the cough and the disgusting snot and the way her eyes and her nose got red. She hated how her ears felt full and her voice sounded funny and nothing tasted right and she wasn't even interested in orgasms. She hated Rupert for sleeping like a rock when she kept waking up hacking, and for being all gentle and solicitous with the hot lemonade and extra-soft tissues, and for telling her she'd feel better soon when obviously she was going to die.
She especially hated that so far, every time, he'd been right. This time wasn't an exception. Eventually her throat hurt a little less, and she could sort-of taste the fresh home made soup he brought her on a tray, and she didn't need to blow her nose every ten minutes. The getting-better part of being sick was all right. Having Rupert fuss over her was nice, once she knew she wasn't going to drown in unpleasant body fluids, and staying in bed was very, very nice when she could convince Rupert to stay with her. She argued that he needed extra rest, to keep from catching her cold, and then tackled him when he suggested that in that case he had better go sleep on the sofa. She found that there was nothing quite like a good orgasm to clear blocked sinuses. Blowing her nose afterwards was almost as satisfying as the pleasure moment. (Rupert laughed very hard when she explained this to him, but finally admitted that he could see a certain parallel, with the release of pressure and all.)
Anya felt rather guilty, however, because she actually had made Rupert sick. Well, the long hours teaching demon identification, basic occult research, and advanced anti-apocalyptic strategy to the baby Slayers hadn't helped. And getting soaked to the bone last night, chasing the stragglers from a particularly nasty vampire cult hadn't done him any good either. If she'd been feeling her usual self, she'd have marched him right into a hot shower and made him drink the echinacea and rosehip tea, instead of waking up exactly long enough to sneeze on him before falling asleep again. No wonder that he woke up coughing and sniffly and very cranky in the way that meant something hurt.
Anya moved the tissue box to the middle of the bed and gave him one of her Strepsils lozenges, and two big tablets of paracetamol, then petted his hair until he went back to sleep. At least she knew that he wasn't going to die if he'd caught what she had. They could share the tissues and the medicine, and eat take-out food on a tray, and snuggle up in sleepy domesticity. Even the revolting way Rupert snorted and gurgled when his nose got stuffy was a little endearing because he wouldn't do that in front of anyone but Anya. With death out of the picture, she had to say that it was slightly romantic to be sick in bed together.
But it would be better once Rupert felt well enough for orgasms.
Title: Slightly Romantic
Pairing/Rating: Giles/Anya, all audiences. Okay, Teen for references to adult activities.
Word Count: 542
Summary: Anya looks on the bright side. Posted for the Giles H/C Ficathon.
After this many years Anya knew she should have gotten used to it, but she still hated catching cold. She hated everything about it - the headache and the scratchy throat and the cough and the disgusting snot and the way her eyes and her nose got red. She hated how her ears felt full and her voice sounded funny and nothing tasted right and she wasn't even interested in orgasms. She hated Rupert for sleeping like a rock when she kept waking up hacking, and for being all gentle and solicitous with the hot lemonade and extra-soft tissues, and for telling her she'd feel better soon when obviously she was going to die.
She especially hated that so far, every time, he'd been right. This time wasn't an exception. Eventually her throat hurt a little less, and she could sort-of taste the fresh home made soup he brought her on a tray, and she didn't need to blow her nose every ten minutes. The getting-better part of being sick was all right. Having Rupert fuss over her was nice, once she knew she wasn't going to drown in unpleasant body fluids, and staying in bed was very, very nice when she could convince Rupert to stay with her. She argued that he needed extra rest, to keep from catching her cold, and then tackled him when he suggested that in that case he had better go sleep on the sofa. She found that there was nothing quite like a good orgasm to clear blocked sinuses. Blowing her nose afterwards was almost as satisfying as the pleasure moment. (Rupert laughed very hard when she explained this to him, but finally admitted that he could see a certain parallel, with the release of pressure and all.)
Anya felt rather guilty, however, because she actually had made Rupert sick. Well, the long hours teaching demon identification, basic occult research, and advanced anti-apocalyptic strategy to the baby Slayers hadn't helped. And getting soaked to the bone last night, chasing the stragglers from a particularly nasty vampire cult hadn't done him any good either. If she'd been feeling her usual self, she'd have marched him right into a hot shower and made him drink the echinacea and rosehip tea, instead of waking up exactly long enough to sneeze on him before falling asleep again. No wonder that he woke up coughing and sniffly and very cranky in the way that meant something hurt.
Anya moved the tissue box to the middle of the bed and gave him one of her Strepsils lozenges, and two big tablets of paracetamol, then petted his hair until he went back to sleep. At least she knew that he wasn't going to die if he'd caught what she had. They could share the tissues and the medicine, and eat take-out food on a tray, and snuggle up in sleepy domesticity. Even the revolting way Rupert snorted and gurgled when his nose got stuffy was a little endearing because he wouldn't do that in front of anyone but Anya. With death out of the picture, she had to say that it was slightly romantic to be sick in bed together.
But it would be better once Rupert felt well enough for orgasms.
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