Sniffle

"Come on, luv. Just drink this down for me like a good lad."

"Will?" Wesley didn't even try to open his eyes. They felt appalling. Gummed down with the grit and grime of a truly hellish head cold.

"Yeah, pet?"

Wesley could feel Spike leaning over him on the bed, and groped for his hand, finding his fingers and patting them. "Motherly doesn't suit you."

Spike snorted. "And I suppose you'd rather have me be all brash and punk, would you? Trust me mate, you wouldn't like that. Involves me sitting on your chest and pouring the lot down your stubborn gullet. Now be good and drink your tea. The lemon's good for the cold."

"I'm quite convinced that nothing will be good for this cold save perhaps a coma until it's done."

"God. Have you always been a drama queen and I've just noticed?" Spike's voice was rough, but his fingers, combing through Wesley's hair were gentle, and he pushed his head against them. "It's just a little sniffle, Wesley."

"That's not the tune you were playing last week when you had it." Wesley forced his eyes open to glare vaguely at Spike, revealing them to be more gray than blue. "I recall something about insisting on a trip to the hospital at three A.M."

"That's right. And you drove me there, pajamas and all like a sodding wet dream."

Wesley looked at Spike incredulously. "You have wet dreams about a man in night clothes driving you to the emergency room in the middle of the night?"

"No, you silly sod." Spike stretched out, wrapping himself around Wesley as lovingly as he wrapped himself around his pole on stage, though his accent slipped, dipped, and lit in more refined tones. "I have wet dreams about someone loving me enough to, though."

"William-"

"Even when I'm being a daft bugger thinking I'm going to die from a head cold."

"Well you had been working hard the week before," Wesley protested, silencing with the touch of Spike's finger on his lips.

"No more of that now. I know I was being a fluttering fool, but you took good care of me, you did. Now shut your bloody gob and let me return the fucking favor."

Wesley burst out laughing, the laughter turning into spasms of coughing that curled him in on himself breathlessly. He came to himself with a groan, held in Spike's lap with his head on his shoulder. "God, you shouldn't make a sick man laugh that way, you bastard."

"Got to keep up your fighting spirit if you're to recover don't I?" Spike tucked Wesley's head beneath his chin, stroking his fingers soothingly through the waves of his hair. "Now drink your tea, pet. Want you healthy and strong again this time next week."

Wesley grimaced, wrapping his fingers around the mug that they felt too stiff to hold. "What happens next week?"

"Not a bleeding thing. But a bloke can only go so long living in a soggy kleenex factory."

Wesley drowned a coughing laugh with the tea, warm and tart with lemon, sweet with honey, letting it warm him from the inside as it went down and Spike rubbed his back in gentle circles.