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The next chapter of The Road is THIS CLOSE to being finalized! *holds thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart* Really. I have discovered from many comments by Lusiology my f-list that the next chapter is in demand.
But the Arrangement got itself done first (mostly because it's shorter and the less stressful and emotionally involved fic, and therefore lends itself well to relaxation time).
...
Title: An Unfortunate Fact of Life
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG with a warning for squicky illness-talk.
Summary: The honeymoon takes a rain check. Part 17 of The Arrangement series.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe does not belong to me, nor does it make me money. Only the original characters are my creation. All characters are over the age of 18.
Also posted on AO3 and skyehawke.
...
Previous parts:
The Arrangement ~ An Evening in August ~ Perfect Potter ~ In Comparison ~ Hypocritical (Hypocritical is f-locked due to rating, and is not especially crucial to the main storyline. It can also be found here.) ~ A Slight Dilemma ~ Table Talk ~ Contract Negotiations ~ Legionis Egeo ~ The Mishap ~ Draco Malfoy and the Extremely Distasteful Contract ~ Good Mornings ~ ...And Good Nights ~ The Estate Agent ~ The Second Last Night ~ House Warming
Other stories in the universe: Six Months of Manchester
...
An Unfortunate Fact of Life
The tea was too hot, but Draco sighed at the rush of strong herbs over his tongue. He was thirstier than he knew, and actually took a couple of gulps before the heat forced him to stop. At least he could actually keep it down today, though, and enjoy it. That was reward enough.
Their new doorbell had a truly soothing sound, without any magical help from either of them. Draco put his steaming tea on the coffee table, drew his blanket over his shoulders and rose from the couch, shuffling down the hall to the front door.
It was the third day since they’d moved in, and whatever celebration they might have had had been thoroughly clobbered. At first, Draco had thought it was the pub food, because it hit him low and quick in the belly sometime in the blue darkness of early morning. The disorientation upon waking had nearly caused him not to make the bathroom in time. Harry was slow to rise and follow, and it wasn’t until Draco was back in bed moaning and clutching his stomach that it occurred to him that they were both still fully dressed.
His battle with the bug had been merciful: limited to a day of physical illness that left him tottery and dehydrated. But when Harry had followed suit that very night, Draco knew it wasn’t the pub food. All in all, Draco thought it was the worst way to spend the first weekend in one’s new home.
Part of him still thought it was Harry’s way of getting out of unpacking. Not that Draco had been up to doing much of that anyway.
And now, two days after the onset, Draco was good-naturedly turning Jesse Sheldon’s pretty fiancée away at the door, with the promise of making good on her dinner invitation later.
“Don’t want to get your little girl sick,” he said, smiling faintly. He gestured at the blanket.
Colleen Fairmont was freckled, chestnut haired, tattooed with ladybugs at the wrists, and very understanding. She also grinned a lot. “If you need anything—soup, juice, someone to run down to Budgens, I’m your girl. Just give a shout through the kitchen window. I’ll leave mine open.”
Draco’s mood gave a genuine lift. “Thank you. So much.”
“Get well,” she said, and trotted down off the front stoop, heading straight across the lawn toward her door. She was wearing gargantuan purple bedroom slippers. Draco’s lips were twitching right up to the moment she waved and disappeared into her house.
He went back to his tea, easing down onto the couch with a groan. God, his stomach felt like it had been pumped with a dish cleaning spell. He slumped into the cushions, the hot mug wrapped in both hands, and stretched his back, trying to ease the sleepy roiling in his gut. Definitely on the mend; he hadn’t sicked up in half a day. But damn it if this thing was going to let its presence be forgotten so quickly. A yawn caught Draco unawares and he gave himself over to it, squeezing his eyes shut and blinking them open blurrily once it was done. “Should go to bed,” he muttered to his tea. “Being a bloody imbecile, staying up like this.”
But Harry had fallen asleep and stayed that way for the first time in two days, for longer than a two-hour stint anyway, and Draco wasn’t about to bumble into bed and jar him awake. When Harry woke up, he tended to throw up, and that was just not something Draco wanted him doing anymore. Not after last night. If the stomach cramping hadn’t managed to yank Harry out of sleep, then the chills and the fever had, and Draco along with it, except for the one time when he’d been so exhausted he’d missed Harry’s initial attack and woke to find his lover half out of the bed, coughing, back muscles tensed as he was sick into the pail they’d magicked up earlier for Draco.
This morning, Harry had looked more than a little white around the edges. His inability to consume water had started to concern Draco until around six, when Harry had downed an entire glass and then managed to not bring it back up before drifting into an uncomfortable doze. Draco had briefly considered soup again, but the lesson of the last time had been more than enough to teach him: just the scent of it sent Harry into immediate and violent retching. Draco had no desire to put Harry through it again.
When Harry’s doze had morphed into a deeper sleep instead of groggy restlessness, Draco had risen and gone downstairs to make himself something. Anything he could stomach, literally.
As it turned out, ginger tea was it. Draco sipped at his tea, watching the morning light from under droopy eyelids and letting each muscle sink into relaxation. Until he found himself jolting awake when lukewarm tea soaked through the leg of his pyjama pants. Draco sat up, rubbing his face. The light had changed a little; still before noon, but—
He heaved himself off the couch, setting the half-full mug down with a hard clink, and made for the stairs. The house was silent, and Draco felt the drag of each step up to the first storey. He was breathing much too hard when he reached the top landing, and for a moment, he felt dizziness fingering its way into his brain. It passed quickly enough, and he padded down the hall to the master bedroom.
Harry lay in bed with the covers tucked up under his arm and tangled around his legs, the result of much tossing and turning. He was on the opposite side of the bed from the one he’d been on earlier, but there was nothing new in the pail when Draco peered into it. Harry seemed to be asleep.
The tension eased minutely out of Draco’s shoulders. He sighed, rubbing his face again. The room was deliciously dark, the thick curtains they’d hung on moving day blocking out most of the sunlight. Immediately, Draco felt drowsy, the slight flood of adrenaline seeping away. He thought about heading back downstairs to the couch so as not to disturb Harry, or across the hall to the appointed guest room, but either trek just seemed so overly long now that he’d made it upstairs, and besides, Harry’s bed was still lacking sheets.
Harry groaned miserably, a painful sound. His body curled, knees tucking toward his chest. Draco sat on the bed and reached one hand out, touching down gently on Harry’s bare upper arm. Harry shifted again, rolling onto his back and coughing in that worrisome, throat-clearing way. But he didn’t wake up and throw himself toward the nearest rubbish bin this time, and Draco relaxed again. He watched Harry’s fingers spasm over his own belly, just above the hem of the sheet where his movements had pulled it down.
It was a bad idea; Draco knew it. He had been this sick before. The slightest touch of pressure was often enough to topple the balance and send the sick person into dry heaves. But he couldn’t stop his hand in time, and it moved, alighting open-palmed on Harry’s stomach just near where his hand rested. Harry continued to breathe deeply and Draco splayed his fingers until his hand was flat against Harry’s belly, pooling heat under his palm.
The wrinkle at Harry’s brow eased. He gave a little mumbling sound that sounded like gibberish. Draco noted that Harry’s lips were chapped, but that his face had gained a little of its colour back. Draco tugged his blanket up off the floor and lay down slowly until he couldn’t stop his fall, and then he was on the duvet beside Harry, his head on a blessedly soft pillow, and his feet warm under his blanket. He reached up and tucked it in closer to his throat, then adjusted Harry’s covers until they shielded his arms and shoulders. Harry continued to breathe steadily, mouth open like a child’s. Draco exhaled, and waited for the same sleep to catch him up again.
...
...
...
Part 18: Compromised
But the Arrangement got itself done first (mostly because it's shorter and the less stressful and emotionally involved fic, and therefore lends itself well to relaxation time).
...
Title: An Unfortunate Fact of Life
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG with a warning for squicky illness-talk.
Summary: The honeymoon takes a rain check. Part 17 of The Arrangement series.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe does not belong to me, nor does it make me money. Only the original characters are my creation. All characters are over the age of 18.
Also posted on AO3 and skyehawke.
...
Previous parts:
The Arrangement ~ An Evening in August ~ Perfect Potter ~ In Comparison ~ Hypocritical (Hypocritical is f-locked due to rating, and is not especially crucial to the main storyline. It can also be found here.) ~ A Slight Dilemma ~ Table Talk ~ Contract Negotiations ~ Legionis Egeo ~ The Mishap ~ Draco Malfoy and the Extremely Distasteful Contract ~ Good Mornings ~ ...And Good Nights ~ The Estate Agent ~ The Second Last Night ~ House Warming
Other stories in the universe: Six Months of Manchester
...
An Unfortunate Fact of Life
The tea was too hot, but Draco sighed at the rush of strong herbs over his tongue. He was thirstier than he knew, and actually took a couple of gulps before the heat forced him to stop. At least he could actually keep it down today, though, and enjoy it. That was reward enough.
Their new doorbell had a truly soothing sound, without any magical help from either of them. Draco put his steaming tea on the coffee table, drew his blanket over his shoulders and rose from the couch, shuffling down the hall to the front door.
It was the third day since they’d moved in, and whatever celebration they might have had had been thoroughly clobbered. At first, Draco had thought it was the pub food, because it hit him low and quick in the belly sometime in the blue darkness of early morning. The disorientation upon waking had nearly caused him not to make the bathroom in time. Harry was slow to rise and follow, and it wasn’t until Draco was back in bed moaning and clutching his stomach that it occurred to him that they were both still fully dressed.
His battle with the bug had been merciful: limited to a day of physical illness that left him tottery and dehydrated. But when Harry had followed suit that very night, Draco knew it wasn’t the pub food. All in all, Draco thought it was the worst way to spend the first weekend in one’s new home.
Part of him still thought it was Harry’s way of getting out of unpacking. Not that Draco had been up to doing much of that anyway.
And now, two days after the onset, Draco was good-naturedly turning Jesse Sheldon’s pretty fiancée away at the door, with the promise of making good on her dinner invitation later.
“Don’t want to get your little girl sick,” he said, smiling faintly. He gestured at the blanket.
Colleen Fairmont was freckled, chestnut haired, tattooed with ladybugs at the wrists, and very understanding. She also grinned a lot. “If you need anything—soup, juice, someone to run down to Budgens, I’m your girl. Just give a shout through the kitchen window. I’ll leave mine open.”
Draco’s mood gave a genuine lift. “Thank you. So much.”
“Get well,” she said, and trotted down off the front stoop, heading straight across the lawn toward her door. She was wearing gargantuan purple bedroom slippers. Draco’s lips were twitching right up to the moment she waved and disappeared into her house.
He went back to his tea, easing down onto the couch with a groan. God, his stomach felt like it had been pumped with a dish cleaning spell. He slumped into the cushions, the hot mug wrapped in both hands, and stretched his back, trying to ease the sleepy roiling in his gut. Definitely on the mend; he hadn’t sicked up in half a day. But damn it if this thing was going to let its presence be forgotten so quickly. A yawn caught Draco unawares and he gave himself over to it, squeezing his eyes shut and blinking them open blurrily once it was done. “Should go to bed,” he muttered to his tea. “Being a bloody imbecile, staying up like this.”
But Harry had fallen asleep and stayed that way for the first time in two days, for longer than a two-hour stint anyway, and Draco wasn’t about to bumble into bed and jar him awake. When Harry woke up, he tended to throw up, and that was just not something Draco wanted him doing anymore. Not after last night. If the stomach cramping hadn’t managed to yank Harry out of sleep, then the chills and the fever had, and Draco along with it, except for the one time when he’d been so exhausted he’d missed Harry’s initial attack and woke to find his lover half out of the bed, coughing, back muscles tensed as he was sick into the pail they’d magicked up earlier for Draco.
This morning, Harry had looked more than a little white around the edges. His inability to consume water had started to concern Draco until around six, when Harry had downed an entire glass and then managed to not bring it back up before drifting into an uncomfortable doze. Draco had briefly considered soup again, but the lesson of the last time had been more than enough to teach him: just the scent of it sent Harry into immediate and violent retching. Draco had no desire to put Harry through it again.
When Harry’s doze had morphed into a deeper sleep instead of groggy restlessness, Draco had risen and gone downstairs to make himself something. Anything he could stomach, literally.
As it turned out, ginger tea was it. Draco sipped at his tea, watching the morning light from under droopy eyelids and letting each muscle sink into relaxation. Until he found himself jolting awake when lukewarm tea soaked through the leg of his pyjama pants. Draco sat up, rubbing his face. The light had changed a little; still before noon, but—
He heaved himself off the couch, setting the half-full mug down with a hard clink, and made for the stairs. The house was silent, and Draco felt the drag of each step up to the first storey. He was breathing much too hard when he reached the top landing, and for a moment, he felt dizziness fingering its way into his brain. It passed quickly enough, and he padded down the hall to the master bedroom.
Harry lay in bed with the covers tucked up under his arm and tangled around his legs, the result of much tossing and turning. He was on the opposite side of the bed from the one he’d been on earlier, but there was nothing new in the pail when Draco peered into it. Harry seemed to be asleep.
The tension eased minutely out of Draco’s shoulders. He sighed, rubbing his face again. The room was deliciously dark, the thick curtains they’d hung on moving day blocking out most of the sunlight. Immediately, Draco felt drowsy, the slight flood of adrenaline seeping away. He thought about heading back downstairs to the couch so as not to disturb Harry, or across the hall to the appointed guest room, but either trek just seemed so overly long now that he’d made it upstairs, and besides, Harry’s bed was still lacking sheets.
Harry groaned miserably, a painful sound. His body curled, knees tucking toward his chest. Draco sat on the bed and reached one hand out, touching down gently on Harry’s bare upper arm. Harry shifted again, rolling onto his back and coughing in that worrisome, throat-clearing way. But he didn’t wake up and throw himself toward the nearest rubbish bin this time, and Draco relaxed again. He watched Harry’s fingers spasm over his own belly, just above the hem of the sheet where his movements had pulled it down.
It was a bad idea; Draco knew it. He had been this sick before. The slightest touch of pressure was often enough to topple the balance and send the sick person into dry heaves. But he couldn’t stop his hand in time, and it moved, alighting open-palmed on Harry’s stomach just near where his hand rested. Harry continued to breathe deeply and Draco splayed his fingers until his hand was flat against Harry’s belly, pooling heat under his palm.
The wrinkle at Harry’s brow eased. He gave a little mumbling sound that sounded like gibberish. Draco noted that Harry’s lips were chapped, but that his face had gained a little of its colour back. Draco tugged his blanket up off the floor and lay down slowly until he couldn’t stop his fall, and then he was on the duvet beside Harry, his head on a blessedly soft pillow, and his feet warm under his blanket. He reached up and tucked it in closer to his throat, then adjusted Harry’s covers until they shielded his arms and shoulders. Harry continued to breathe steadily, mouth open like a child’s. Draco exhaled, and waited for the same sleep to catch him up again.
...
...
...
Part 18: Compromised
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Date: 2009-07-01 04:35 am (UTC)From: