If I could write with any degree of coherence, I'd be at work and not at home coughing up my second lung when I breathe too deeply and wishing someone would take the icepick out of my skull. To anybody I should've been online with and wasn't, apologies. Spent the weekend on the couch, when not in the emergency room being told that there was nothing direly wrong with me and here, have these anti-nausea pills and by the way you're anemic.
However. Because it's been commanded:
"I'm not kissing you."
"Yes, you are."
"Not like that. You're all... sweaty and... sicky and..."
"See and there's that. That... coughing...thing. Supposing I was to give in and kiss you just to make your fevered little brow happy, since it certainly won't do anything for me... You'd go all coughing in my face. With the bad breath. And the germs."
Cough. "Bad breath? You drink blood. Your breath smells like you drink blood."
"Me? Me? You're saying I have halitosis, Mr. Fifteen White Castles In One Sitting?"
Twist. Groan. Huddle under covers. Cough. "Could you not? With the mentioning of the foodstuffs? Please?"
"Right, sorry." His hand along Xander's flank, sliding over skin far too hot and clammy to make any vampire happy, let alone one who actually cared about the human he was touching.
"Nice." Muffled by two blankets and a goosedown sleeping bag. Going by pattern, an hour from now he'll have thrown them all off and claim to be burning up.
"But I'm not kissing you."
Cough. "Cause of the germs."
"That you're immune to."
"Right. No. Well, yeah. But it's the principle of the thing."
"Because I'm icky."
"Yes!" Happy that he's finally understood, Spike sees too late the pitiful glimmer of one glassy eye peeking out of the blankets at him.
"Thanks. So--" cough - "much. I'm willing to kiss dead people every day of my life, and you won't even kiss me when I'm mildly flu-y. Your love is vast and eternal."
"People? Which dead people."
Eye, hair, body, disappear beneath the mountain of covers. A muffled, "Figure ufff speech, affhole," makes its way out.
Spike sighs, and slithers in beside him, seeking warmth -- even sick, fevered warmth -- like a snake in the desert at dusk. He finds the back of a sweat-drenched neck, and smoothes the sodden curls away, resting his fingers there instead.
"Still nice." Cough, and the whole bed shakes. "Still an asshole."
"I'm not kissing you."
"Yeff, you awwww."
"Well, yeah, but I'm not enjoying--" Cough. "it."
"Works for me."
"Shh. Go to sleep."