Everyone Needs a Little TLC (14 parts) COMPLETE - M/M

[telltale]

This is wonderfully tender, perfectly hurt/comforty and, oh yeah, hot. I adore it in every way.

[Quite Contrary]

Love, love, love, love, love, love.... This story is just...guh. Fantabulous. Incredible writing, and Bayle is KILLING ME. Poor guy, what the hell, somebody needs to take care of him.

[starpollen]

OK so I am dragging out this story... it's making me very happy to write it, and I'm SO happy you guys love reading it!

Hope you like this next part, too.

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PART 8:

It was hard – so unbelievably hard – not to stretch out on the bed next to my sleeping blond (and when I had started referring to him in my head as ‘my,’ I had no idea…), hard not to lay my hand on his chest and feel it rise and fall with his sleep-deep breaths, the slight wheeze still whistling lightly through his lungs.

But it was only 2:00 in the afternoon. So I forced myself to go clean up the dishes, following that activity with a thorough scouring of the whole kitchen. Then the bathroom. Then some laundry.

I had to keep busy. Keeping busy kept me from sneaking back into the bedroom just to watch him sleep. Which I wanted to do more than anything. Which – at this stage – would have been creepy.

Not that I completely left him alone. I couldn’t. Every ten or fifteen minutes I would tip-toe to the door and peek inside, assuring myself that he was still there. Was still sleeping. Wasn’t needing anything.

Then I would wrench myself away to complete more chores.

I washed Bayle’s faded jeans, noticing that they were the only article of clothing in the bathroom other than the ratty pair of sneakers. No underwear. No socks. I wondered if he had any other articles of clothing, besides his work polo. There was a part of me that wanted to throw both things away, but I didn’t. I had seen flashes of stubbornness and pride in the younger man, and I didn’t want to strip him of all his dignity if I could help it.

His illness – and I suspected his past – had done enough of that already.

Five hours later, the house was spic and span and the sun had gone down. I was finishing dinner – another turkey sandwich – when I heard him coughing.

I left my dishes on the table, striding quickly to the bedroom door.

Bayle was sitting up among the blankets, sleep-tousled hair, vividly chapped nose, bruised shadows under his half-lidded sapphire eyes.

“iih... hh-h… ehk’ZztngSHuu!”

His pale face snapped down into the wad of tissues he clutched in desperate fingers, shoulders hunching with the force of it. He groaned thickly, voice husky and deep. Bayle’s shaggy blond head slowly reared back, chin quivering, eyes still closed tight. His nose looked angry and sensitive, fiery red and flaring toward another sneeze.

"... ahh-kNGzt'SCH!"

His muscular body convulsed yet again, that second blast horrifically wet and squelching. I was drawn to his side like a moth to the flame.

“Hheeh . . .! Nnk-Hg'EH'SSSHzz!"

That last wrenching sneeze ended the fit, his shoulders sagging with a long, exhausted sigh as he spent the last useful portion of tissues on a thick, congested blow. And there at the very end, a soft, miserable moan.

I sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on his back, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You okay?”

“Uuugggghhh….”

How could someone sound so utterly miserable and yet so completely irresistible at the same time?...

I murmured a soft, vague litany of reassurances while he snorted and huffed and groaned, trying to blow his hopelessly clogged nose. My mind was focused on a string of 'to-do's that marched through my head. Another dose of flu medicine, orange juice, maybe dig out the humidifier... a yearning to soothe, to comfort, to heal.

Finally he flopped back against the headboard, giving up on trying to breathe.

“Uggh,” he groaned again, throwing a corded forearm over his eyes. “Jusd kgill be dow…”

“Sorry, honey,” I gave a rueful smile that was probably more of a grimace, which he couldn’t see anyway with his arm over his face. “Jail and I are not on speaking terms. And I wouldn’t be caught dead in stripes.” Okay, too cliché there with the fashion reference. “I can, however, give you more medicine. Sound good?”

He nodded, arm remaining draped over those exhausted baby blues, leaving only his swollen, flushed nose and parted lips available to view.

Which I wanted to kiss so badly...

I clenched my fists and huffed out a shaking breath, letting my hungry gaze travel down his sculpted shoulders and chest to his trim waist, seeing a hint of pale, inked skin peeking out from where the shirt had pulled up with his raised arm.

I couldn’t kill him. But this was definitely killing me. Slowly. An exquisite, torturous death.

It took nearly all my strength to get up and leave his side long enough to get the flu medicine, deciding to wait on the cough medicine to see if the cold was staying in his head or trying to get to his lungs. If it did migrate south, we wouldn’t want to suppress the coughing that would help bring up any congestion that tried to settle.

Yes. This was better. It was a lot easier for me to focus on my professional training and think of him like a patient instead of an object of lust.

I poured a dose of medicine, but then I had a thought.

“Hey,” I called softly from the bedroom doorway. “You want anything to eat?” Some medicines went better if a person already had food in their stomach.

One sapphire eye peeked out from under his arm. “Sure.”

“What sounds good?”

Bayle heaved himself upright with a long, slurpy sniff, reaching for a tissue from the box by the bed. “Ub, whadever you got.”

I took in his lean figure, knees bent up under the covers, one arm resting casually on the tented blankets, the other pinching a lotion-infused white square around his nose and rubbing in an up-and-down motion. His blond hair was sticking up all over the place.

Could he be any more endearing?...

And then my my brain wondered how often he had the chance to eat. Did he eat three meals a day? Two meals a day?...

One?...

It made that warm place in my gut happy to think about feeding him. Of providing for him. I blushed to think about how cute it would be if he got a little chubby layer over that lean stomach, how he might complain about it…

And also anxious because I didn’t have a lot of food in the house. I didn’t think about feeding myself three meals a day, most days.

But I did have delivery numbers on speed dial.

“Chinese or pizza?” I asked.

Lowering the tissue with another sniffle, I was graced with my very first Bayle-smile.

Let me tell you: it was glorious.

His smile transformed his face from angular and exotic to boyish and sweet, like the sun suddenly breaking through the clouds on a still winter morning, causing the snow to sparkle. I realized that the analogy was Hallmark-card cliché, but my brain was currently experiencing several short-circuits that made higher-level thinking impossible.

“Pbizza.”

It took me a second to remember that I had asked a question that required an answer.

“Uh, w-… what kind?” I stammered, my brown eyes locked in his blue laser-beam gaze, knowing I was returning his sunny expression with a helplessly stupid smile of my own.

“Hamb ad pideapple,” he chirped.

“What?” I scoffed, shaking my head and laughing derisively. “You’re so gross! Fruit does not belong on a pizza. Yuck!”

His face fell, mouth pulling into a scowl. “You asked mbe whad I wadted ad…” The shaggy head ducked, shoulders hunching a little as if he’d suddenly gone too far. “I bead… order whadever. I dod’t care…”

The smile melted off my face. Shit… He’d asked for something - something very simple, actually - and I’d made him feel stupid for asking for it. I hadn’t known his confidence was that fragile, that easily shaken.

Then I remembered the rope.

I stalked quickly across the room to the side of the bed, mattress dipping as I sat down beside him. His pale fingers plucking nervously at the balled up tissue in his hands. He wouldn't look at me.

I fumbled for what to say.

His hair was hanging in his face. I raised my hand, and only then did Bayle’s blue eyes lift to track it as I slowly raised it up to push some of the shaggy strands back from his forehead, stroking down to his neck. His eyelids fluttered for just a moment, as if they wanted to close in pleasure but he stubbornly fought against it.

“You ligke to touch mbe,” he whispered, soft and uncertain, staring into my face with an unreadable expression.

“Is that a problem?” I whispered back, letting my hand have one more stroke in those silky strands before coming to rest on his shoulder.

We both held our breath.

“…Ndo…”

A half-breathed answer, one so full of that same precipice-fraught hope and dread that was becoming the part of Bayle I associated as ‘my rabbit.’ A creature so accustomed to threat because it lived with it every second of every day that its heart’s hammering became its life’s music. And yet it still fought for survival, still embraced the hope that it could manage to make it through another day, to string enough days together to eke out a satisfying life.

Hope. That’s what I wanted to give him.

One corner of my mouth quirked up into a soft smile. “…good.”

I was staring at his face, memorizing the slope of his forehead, the cut of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes against his pale cheek. So I got to watch the entire, luscious performance that unfolded.

Slowly, his face transformed: eyes growing heavy-lidded, brow furrowing, deliciously crimson wings of his nostrils flaring in slow, rhythmic pulses as an adorable wrinkle appeared on the pale bridge of his nose. His lips unfurled into a soft, expectant ‘oh,’ chin dropping open to reveal a pink tongue curled and hovering in the dark recesses of his mouth…

Bayle’s pale fist came up and closed around his nose, moving the fist around in that strange circular motion I had seen before, clearly a method of trying to rub away the itch. That combined with a deep sniffle seemed to delay it, but finally his eyes fluttered closed, breath hitching in a slow, almost torturous fashion. His hand fumbled for the used ball of tissue, managing to bring it up just in time.

“--Hc'gNXtz!-ah..." his eyes stayed closed, paper pressed firmly against his nose as he clenched with a second, "hnk’GgSCHTu!-hh.”

“Bless you.”

Impulsively, I closed my eyes and leaned forward to press my lips to his temple, hearing Bayle’s soft gasp catch in his chest.

“Come on,” I wrenched myself away and stood up. “Let’s order some ham and pineapple pizza.”

Edited August 16, 2015 by starpollen

[animegirl13]

... Just so you know, this is killing my feels. This is to freaking adorable!!!!! >_< So good job.

[starpollen]

In case anyone needed a visual for Bayle... (But the tattoos are on both sides of his body...)

[Quite Contrary]

[Juto]

I'm just gonna second this, and add:

Oh my GOD! Do not worry about dragging out! I think we're all writhing in this exquisite reading material as it is!

[Arty]

[truth]

gAh I don't even have words

[Mustang]

The story and the visual are positively droolworthy. I love your descriptions.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Love the story! I have to say I'm not a tat fan, but even I admit those are pretty.

[StaraiRoalanstjay]

Aww, poor Bayle!!! I really want to know who that woman was, but I know that he isn't going to be able to talk about it any time soon! (Also: Tomatoes are a fruit. Just saying!)

[Artemis]

woops went too far there please update I am in love!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[animegirl13]

Sweet tatoos!!!

[happybunny]

YESS. just... YESS!

[starpollen]

Your wish for an update is my command!...

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PART 9:

To be fair, I didn’t order one ham and pineapple pizza for the two of us. I ordered one of the large abominations for Bayle, and a second large with perfectly reasonable peppers, mushrooms, and anchovies for me.

Bayle took the time while we waited for it to arrive to go to the bathroom, and I brewed another big pot of hot tea. Liberally lacing his with honey and mine with a shot of whiskey, I set both mugs on the table as I heard the toilet flushing, followed by several long, gurgling, productive blows.

He came into the kitchen still sniffling, rubbing his nose with a knuckle.

“Tea’s on the table,” I tossed over my shoulder, opening the fridge and looking for the Ranch dressing. There’s nothing to explain about this; I like my pizza with Ranch dressing. Deal with it.

Then his sniffling became more pronounced, more desperate. I turned and watched as his eyes grew heavy with irritation. My attention was mesmerized by the slight rippling of his nostrils as they were teased slowly into yet another sneeze.

This was definitely shaping up to be one of the sneeziest colds I had ever seen anyone come down with.

Lucky, lucky me.

“-hh…. Uhh’keyyGGSSHhu!” he pulled a tissue from the box I’d left in the kitchen (I’d made sure there was a box in pretty much every room) and caught the wet sneeze in the white paper, head bobbing down and shaggy hair falling into his eyes. He sniffled liquidly, ominously, a second surely on the horizon as his body tried to rid itself of the tickly fluid. "hih’hyehh… ... hihhh- ingk’GYIZTSH!!" They were getting heavier, more congested. And more insistent.

“Bless you.”

He opened his mouth to say something in response... but was again interrupted by his gorgeous cold.

"Ihh... hihh-ihh... hh..."

His muscled shoulders were jumping with tight, high gasps that he was desperately trying to silence. Vague sapphire eyes fluttered to half-mast, lashes dark against pale lids, a furrow of concentration between his brows. He jerked more tissues out of the box, causing it to fall over on its side as he brought the clump of white paper to hover expectantly in front of his nose and mouth, obscuring them from view.

"heh-hh!… AH!…Gyy’eeiihGXTschieu!"

Another low groan.

“…why cad’t I stob sdeezig??...” he huffed from behind the fistful of tissues, chest wheezing loudly enough that I could hear it from across the room.

“Bayle,” I closed the fridge, Ranch dressing forgotten. Long legs eating up the space between us, I placed one hand on his chest and the other against his back, feeling the buzz of sibilant wheezing under my hands as he panted.

The tissues were still clamped to his face, blue eyes wide with wariness.

“W-whad… whad are you doig?...” he asked, clearly slipping into a familiar fearful fight-or-flight mode.

“Just breathe for me,” I was focused completely on his lungs, ignoring the pull of that gorgeous gaze.

He stared at me for another long moment, deliberately holding his breath.

“Please?” I added softly, dipping my chin and giving his back a light, reassuring rub.

Keeping the tissues clamped to his cold-stricken nose, the younger man exhaled slowly – shakily – through his mouth, and then pulled in a long, slow inhale, letting it out just as cautiously.

A thin, high whistle accompanied both exhales, tumbling his breath into a rock slide of constricted coughs.

“Does your chest feel tight?” I asked, brow furrowing with worry.

Bayle ducked his head and gave that half-shrug he had given before, the ‘it doesn’t matter’ one that was quickly becoming my newest and most aggravating pet peeve.

“Bayle, please…” And enough panic must have been in my plea for him to actually do it.

“A liddle…” his muffled answer from behind the knot of tissues.

I grunted, mind working to figure out how we were going to handle this newest development.

“Dod’t worry,” he tried to say, lowering the tissues and giving a pathetic, congested snort through completely blocked sinuses. “Id goes away evedually. Id’s ogkay…”

Then… his other hand came up and pressed against mine where it rested on the hard planes of his chest…

It was the first time he had willingly touched me.

Then I was the one who held my breath.

But - as much as I hated to lose the contact he had initiated - I needed to try to explain this to him. So I reluctantly pulled my hands away from his firm body, raising them to cup either side of his unusual face, forcing our gazes to lock on each other, blue versus brown.

“It’s not okay, Bayle,” I said urgently, willing him to understand. “It’s not okay that you’re sick. It’s not okay that you can’t breathe. It’s not okay that…” but I stopped myself before I reminded him of the place I had rescued him from earlier that very day. I didn’t want him to think about that place again. Ever. “It’s just not.” I took a deep breath. “And we’re gonna fix it. I don’t know how, but we’re gonna fix it. Okay?”

Bayle’s wide eyes stretched with incomprehension, blond brows lifting in his pale face, making him look suddenly so fucking young…

Way too young for me to be stroking a thumb languidly over his lower lip. Too young for me to be licking my own lips, lowering my head toward that full, magnetic mouth…

Then… true to form… those blue eyes grew unfocused, chin dropping just a little more as his nostrils twitched, cherry-red and irritated. He needed to sneeze, but clearly didn't want to. I was too close, his body warring with his self-control as he struggled, breath hitching dangerously. His shoulders quivered and shook, air sucked in between his clenched teeth as he stubbornly resisted.

It was too tempting to stay there, watching him struggle, feeling the effects of the building sneeze quaking through his muscular body as it shuddered under my hands...

Finally, though, I took my hands back, moving away and allowing him to lose the battle he so desperately needed to.

Immediately his hands shot up, desperately clamping the used tissues to his face just in time.

"hyie‘NXzyuhTSCHH!!..." he tried to stifle it, but clearly trying to put off for even those few moments had been too long: it simply could not be contained. Two more forced their way out, as if to drive the point home who - or in this case, what - was in control of his body at this moment.

"Hkg'SSCHH! -uh. Ihhh!-KGSSCHu! Ugghhh…" he wheezed, pulling more tissues with his cupped palm and coughing roughly into them.

Saved by a sneeze.

Or damned…

The angel and devil were currently having a mud-wrestling contest to decide which.

I sighed, the sound of his lungs pulling me from my reverie and causing me to tug my cell phone out of my pocket. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was late, but not too late. There was one person I could think of who would be willing to do me a favor.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Dr. Mitchell? This is Dr. Cohen.”

“Travin, hey. How are you? What’s up?”

Bayle turned and shuffled into the living room, cautiously looking around and taking in the fixtures of my house while I talked to the pediatrician.

“Dr. Mitchell, I have a big favor to ask. I have a young man in his early twenties – a new patient – who has a very bad cold. He had asthma as a kid and it seems to be flaring up. Would you be willing to look at him tonight? I’d like to get an inhaler for him as soon as possible.”

I wasn’t sure how Bayle would react to a stranger coming over, but I wanted to make sure we were ready for anything.

Edited August 5, 2015 by starpollen

[starpollen]

PART 10:

Dr. Mitchell was willing to come by the house, which Bayle was obviously not thrilled about but after some coaxing was convinced to tolerate.

Maybe “coaxing” isn’t the right word. I told him he wouldn’t get any pizza unless he did it.

I know. I threatened the ill. Sue me.

I was pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger while the doctor listened to Bayle’s chest with his stethoscope, asking questions and getting answers in low voices I strained to hear but couldn’t. My only saving grace was that the pizza arrived during the brief examination, and I was able to expend some energy paying the pimple-faced teen driver, getting out my plastic picnic plates – what I associated in my mind with ‘pizza’ – and setting up the kitchen counters in an assembly line. Plates, pizza, Parmesan cheese, Ranch dressing, napkins…

I scarfed three slices, not having known I had a penchant for nervous eating but these last few hours with the blond were teaching me that there was a lot about myself that lay dormant.

Bossiness. Gentleness. Desire.

Overprotective she-bear…

When they were done, Bayle had a rescue inhaler on the coffee table in front of him (the pediatrician had brought it with him, wonderful man…) and prescriptions for his own cough medicine, inhaler refills, and an antibiotic we could use if the cold turned into a full-blown sinus infection.

Prepared for anything. Just like I wanted.

Dr. Mitchell even got Bayle to take two puffs from the inhaler before getting up to leave.

I left the blond watching an episode of The Walking Dead, happily inhaling a mountain of ham and pineapple pizza, while I walked Dr. Mitchell to his car.

“So, doc,” I stopped near the headlights as he opened the driver’s side and tossed his bag into the passenger seat. “How is he?”

The other man laid one arm on the door and one arm on the roof, peering at me through the darkness. “It’s a bad cold, edging into sinus infection territory. But you’re taking good care of him. He’ll be fine.”

I nodded curtly. “And the asthma?”

“It’s not too serious,” Dr. Mitchell responded casually. “I don’t anticipate any ER visits in your near future, although - as you know – there is never any guarantee, depending on his triggers. Which we don’t know without a full spectrum of allergy tests.”

I nearly rolled my eyes, imagining the kind of ‘coaxing’ it would take to get Bayle to agree to tolerate that…

“It may be uncomfortable for him while he’s sick, especially if the cold turns into bronchitis. Which you can’t prevent, you know.”

I did know. But hearing him remind me of it made me curl my hands into fists, determined to prove him wrong.

Dr. Mitchell went on, “He admits to smoking when he was in high school, and said he was recently living in a house with smokers.”

Smoking. A known way to make lungs susceptible to bronchitis and pneumonia. Especially asthmatic lungs. The fucking idiot!… I was ready to go inside and strangle him…

The doctor continued, “If his lungs get irritated and inflamed from the coughing, then it could happen. But that’s treatable. Just keep pushing fluids and keep him warm and well fed. Let him sleep as much as he can. Make him use his inhaler if he needs it.”

I nodded again. All standard illness-care; nothing I didn’t already know. Except the smoking history. Something I would make sure never happened again…

She-bear…

Dr. Mitchell cleared his throat, looking down at his feet. “He made a couple of comments…” then he trailed off.

“What?”

“It was more about what he didn’t say,” the older man explained softly, lifting his gaze to me once more. “Travin…”

He paused for a moment, and my fists clenched tighter in preparation for something I wouldn’t be able to un-hear…

“What?”

But the older man simply said, “You’re doing the right thing.”

Tension eased slightly. “Thanks, doc. I owe you.”

He answered with a teasing chuckle. “You’ll be getting a bill from my office.” Then he got in the car and drove away.

I entered the house fully intending to shake some sense into my pea-brained rabbit. Smoking? Really??...

But I stopped just inside the front door.

Bayle sat on the couch, a tissue stretched expectantly between his pale hands. His mouth hung open, blinking furiously as his nostrils twitched, cherry-red and irritated. After several long moments, he wrenched down, shoulders flinching sharply, "hc'ZTSCHuahh!" echoing with a sick resonance symptomatic of a truly miserable cold.

"-uuhn'YPBSHht! … … -uhh… … hhHH!... Hpt'ZZDSCHT! Hheh??...hhHH??!..."

He almost sneezed a fourth time, but it left him at the last second. Sighing with deep frustration, he wrapped the damp tissue around his nose and rubbed it peevishly, actually pushing fingers up inside his nose through the tissue to try to assuage the irritated membranes.

Several stuttering sniffles followed before he reached blindly for the tissue box, glancing up at me – embarrassed? - and layering another square over the one already at his face and giving a very long, gurgling blow.

The whole tableau melted my exasperation.

“Sneezy, huh?” I teased with an indulgent half-smile, crossing to stand next to him.

“Baybe…” he whispered, cheeks flushing endearingly.

One of the pizza boxes was in front of him on the coffee table, almost empty: only a couple of half-bitten crusts and one full, fruit-infected slice remained. He had definitely been hungry…

I placed my hand on his head, running my nails lightly under his hair and across his scalp, smiling as he relaxed with a sigh at my touch and wiped his rebellious nose, reaching yet again for the tissues.

I had stocked up at the bargain bulk warehouse in the city last week, but at the rate he was going through them I was going to need to buy more before Sunday.

My hand still carding through his hair, I watched as once again his summer-sky eyes went slowly vague, mauve lips struggled not to part as the tickle shivered through his sinuses, several soft, helpless gasps sucked in through unwilling teeth.

He breathed out an airy, choked "…goddasdeeze … …” that rose in pitch as he blinked watery eyes at the overhead light.

The delicate rims of his nostrils were pulsating, a dangerous glint in the dark recesses.

Finally, his eyes narrowed to slits and he buried his nose in the damp paper to smother a shuddering, “--MPH’kgTSCH!"

But it seemed to bring him little relief. “Hh--NGXschh!.” he sneezed again, blocked with congestion, the sneezy expression never really leaving his face.

My body clenched tighter and tighter with each shivery inhalation, utterly transfixed.

“Hhh--ehhh....!” His eyes squeezed shut, lips parting with a high-pitched hitch of breath, his lean muscles tensed in dread and need. “--hh’gkSSCHhu! -ahhh.” he sneezed at last, finally relieved.

The blond gave a long sigh and sniffled several times, blinking and wiping furiously in the aftermath.

"B-bless you!" I cleared my throat, trying not to let my voice crack like a prepubescent schoolboy’s. “You, uh… you think it’s time for some more medicine?”

“…pblease…” he croaked in a low, hoarse voice, tissues pressed to the lower half of his face. “I’b so tired of sdeezig…”

Poor kid. He sounded exhausted...

I would have given anything to draw his body against mine in that moment, to feel his hard muscles against my skin, to plumb that succulent mouth with a strong, soul-searing kiss…

But I settled for fetching the capful of nighttime cold & flu medicine I had poured before we ordered pizza, fetching a fleece throw from my linen cabinet and tucking him in on the couch with more honeyed tea. I plunked mine into the microwave – I had completely forgotten about it.

“You kgeep bakig be drigk tdea…” he whispered congestedly, eyelids already looking heavy with the tug of sleep. “I’b godda have do pbee all dight…”

“Good,” I responded, going to the shelf where I had all my DVDs. “Flush your system. Get all the bad germs out.” I chose three titles, bringing them over to where he was wrapped up, blinking in an adorable owl-like fashion. “Pick one.”

He quirked one golden brow up, sapphire gaze flicking up at me. “…so bossy…”

I smirked back. “Get used to it.”

A warmer shade of hope suffused those cerulean irises. “…tryig…”

Both the angel and devil made promises in that moment, promises about things all three of us were going to make sure he ‘got used to…’

“What do you wanna watch?” I asked again, shoving those thoughts in the closet for a later time. Good one, Trav… First the cliché about the stripes and now a ‘closet’ joke…

Looking at the DVDs I held in my hands, his brow furrowed. “I have’d seed ady of theb.”

I glanced down. I had The Matrix, Shawshank Redemption, and Die Hard. “None of these?...”

Bayle shook his shaggy, golden head.

“Okay,” I shrugged, determined not to let my incredulity show and undermine his confidence like I had done with the pizza. “Here then.” I put Shawshank and Die Hard behind my back, deciding his cold-ridden brain might not be up to The Matrix tonight. “Pick a hand, any hand.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment, thinking. Then his pale finger reached out and pointed to my left.

I pulled the box forward and looked. “Die Hard it is.”

I set up the media equipment and fetched my reheated tea, then settled down at his side, resisting the urge to reach out and draw him to rest against me. As much as I longed to touch him – to coax him to let down those iron barriers I knew he clung to so desperately and relax, to let me take him into my arms and give himself up to me to take care of - as much as I longed for his trust?... I wouldn’t force it.

After all, we were still practically strangers. He may be staying with me for a couple of days so he would have a warm and clean place to sleep while he recovered from a vicious head cold… and I may be generous to give him a few meals… But I was enough of a realist to know what would happen in a few days when he was well enough to take care of himself. Bayle would become Mop Boy again, and I would go back to being Dr. Cohen.

So I would keep my distance. I had to.

Until the blond gave a jaw-cracking yawn and shivered, shifting just a few inches closer as if he wanted to curl into the warmth of my body but wasn’t sure if he would be welcome…

One furtive sapphire glance in my direction was all it took.

All my realism vanished like a fart in the wind.

(Not the most romantic of similes I could come up with, but that’s how fast it was.)

I arced an arm over his head and settled it around his shoulders, gently tugging him to lay with his head on a pillow in my lap, muscled shoulders against my ribs, pale hands lying lax against my thigh.

And was rewarded with a head-to-toe shuddering sigh of contentment, the stocky, muscular body shifting even closer to me with a small, chuffing moan.

Bayle was so starved for touch – for gentle, kind touch – that he was willing to curl up with someone who was practically a stranger just because I had fed him, comforted him, and let him sleep without fear.

The devil on my shoulder screamed for vengeance against those who had brought my brave, damaged rabbit to this sorry state.

The angel urged me to simply enjoy the feel of him in my arms, my fingers stroking his hair softly back from his forehead as he shifted, finding a comfortable position that practically cuddled my legs.

And when I felt him go boneless, hard muscles relaxing with a soft sigh? All three of us cheered.

Honestly, I didn’t think the kid was gonna make it even halfway through the movie: Bayle seemed drained by more than just his illness. But he hung on a lot longer than I would have guessed.

Part of that – admittedly – was because his sinuses were giving him hell.

One hand never left his face, pinching or knuckling or wiping or even just touching the inflamed organ as he sniffled and snorted and groaned with discomfort. Every time he needed to sneeze, Bayle sat up, jaw slack, tongue hovering between his lips.

These were lingering, more wrenchingly drawn-out than before, a sure sign that he was at the height of this abominable cold.

"--iihhh…. kiihghh!… eh'kdnxggssc'hhuu!…ahh," his body folded nearly in half, face disappearing behind his arm. "--snkt! Huh!... Huuuhhh'ppxdscchggeiuu!…”

He would try to blow his nose, though most of the time he would just blow himself into a coughing fit, my hand rubbing reassuring circles on his muscled back. Then he would lay back in my lap, face still slack with an incredibly sneezy expression, the bridge of his red, chapped nose wrinkling up even as his mouth pursed into an exasperated little 'oh'.

Bayle would knuckle and rub and squeeze his nose for several more minutes, and then…

"Heh... hyuhhh-ZTSHiu!...” He hauled himself upright, gratefully taking the wad of tissues I pressed into his hands. “Ah-- ha-PBjjSCH'eiiu! -nhh. Ehhh?...-- " He had the ball of tissues crushed to his mouth, the third sneeze hesitating in his nose and making it quiver and flare wildly as his eyes rolled under the heavy cover of their lids.

It almost seemed to back off for a second, and I couldn't believe the high whimper that came from the back of his throat. Finally, it was wrenched out of him with vicious force.

“gyuh’YIIKTSCHhieu! ” His slow hand dabbed his streaming nose and eyes with the damp knot of paper, panting roughly. "Egscuse be," his voice was totally gone, the squeaky creak painful to listen to.

It melted every bone in my body.

"Oh honey," I breathed, leaning forward and brushing the hair away from his face with soft, smooth strokes. His slight shiver, head leaning into my hand with a heavy sigh, caused my own eyes to almost roll back in my head. "Come on. Let's get you into a bed," I murmured, movie forgotten.

Bruce Willis be damned.

We did another long, slow, shuffle-dance to the bedroom, me locking doors and turning off lights on our way.

I settled him into the bed with a glass of water on the nightstand, two puffs of his inhaler, and two fistfuls of tissues. Smoothing his hair back from his pale face, I murmured, “I’ll be right back.”

Ducking into the bathroom, I rummaged through the cabinets, searching for something I thought would bring him more relief.

I returned to find him sitting up in bed, tissues hovering, in the grip of another massive sneeze.

“Gy'huh-eh!...hhUPBSCHhh!- … Ohh…"

Yeah, that sounded like it hurt. And he wasn't done.

“ihh!... gk’EIUMF’fsch!"

He'd tried to smother that one behind closed lips, then tried to sniffle back the flood... and failed miserably at both attempts.

"... Huh- huh’uh!- ik’HYIIBP'ssch! -Uhh. Hehh!!…"

I managed to press another pile of tissues into his hand just in time...

"hh! HWUMPbj'tssch!! Uhh… huh-hw'UHBMP-ssch!!"

Heavily congested, they were dragged from him with little warning and no gentleness, as if his cold demanded one last outcry before he finally gave in to sleep.

"Bless you," I whispered, sitting down next to him as he dropped his head into his hands, trying to massage what had to be achy-congested-itchy sinuses.

“Ughh,” he groaned, heels of his hands digging into his eyes sockets. “I’ve dever sdeezed so buch id by life…”

I rubbed his back, feeling strong muscles rippling under my hand. “How are you feeling, baby?”

“…ligke shidt…” he answered, coughing hard. If he noticed the pet name, he didn’t acknowledge it. He gave a few more coughs and two hard shivers, reminding me of my mission.

First I plugged in the humidifier, turning it on high and closing the bedroom door so that it would have the most effect. Then, "I've got something that will help with all this congestion. Can you take your shirt off?"

Bayle glanced at me briefly, one golden brow arched as if to say 'are you crazy? I’m cold!...' but then he saw the blue jar in my hand and submitted with a stuttering sigh.

When his crossed arms raised over his head, stripping the black cotton from his skin… I couldn't help my fish-mouthed stare. This was the third time I had seen him shirtless, but I didn’t think I would ever get used to the sight.

Unbearably smooth, his skin was a rippled landscape of pale, muscled flesh... like the wind-ruffled dune of some white, sandy beach in a forbidden tropical paradise. And those inky, midnight lines of tribal tattoos swirling their dark fingers around his ribs, over his shoulders to sweep under his collarbones, down his sides to disappear into the soft band of the sweatpants at his hips…

My clothes suddenly got a lot tighter, my body sweating bullets as I rubbed the pungent Vicks into his smooth, exposed chest with shaking fingers, feeling the curve and dip of hard muscles, the gentle rise and fall of his breath. I let my hands rub deep, turning the treatment into more of a massage than was probably necessary, because he felt like silk-sheathed-steel, setting every nerve ending in my own long, lean body ablaze.

And then?... the powerful aroma hit his sensitive nostrils.

"Heh!!..." he gasped, holding his breath until I moved quickly out of the way. Then, a fierce set of fittish, ticklish sneezes catapulted him upright into his cupped hands.

"--ksch! heh-KSCH!! --heh-heh'KSCH!"

I watched as his shoulders flinched, head bobbing with each sharp release.

"ah!... ah-ah!-KSCH! hah-KSCH! hah-KSCH! ... hek'SCHEeuu!..."

Finally, one decisive, "yeei'EUTZDSSCH! -ahhhh." that ended the fit, shoulders sagging, his eyes slipping closed in exhaustion and relief.

I put more tissues in his hands, thankful when he gave several easy, productive blows instead of choking on it. The combination of medicines had definitely begun to break up the suffocating congestion.

"That’s it. Just relax. Give it a few minutes and you’ll feel a lot better," I soothed, rubbing his bare shoulder, feeling that sleek skin ripple with goosebumps. Jeez, how could anyone be that cold?... Then again, he hasn’t got an ounce of fat on his body to keep him warm… "Come on, lie back."

As Bayle smoothly pulled the shirt back over his head, I swallowed hard and agreed with the little shoulder-devil’s voice in my head that was whining about how it was a crime to cover something so achingly beautiful…

But he needed sleep. We all did. This had been one of the longest days of my life.

The blond pulled at the front of the shirt with two fingers to try and keep the fabric from sticking to the damp gel on his chest before laying back, giving a couple of light coughs that already sounded much better. His silken hair fell into his eyes as he curled onto his side with an unreserved sigh, tucking his hands under his chin like a little boy.

This time, I indulged the devil who urged me to slide into bed behind him, telling myself that it was just in case he needed anything during the night…

Who was I kidding?

I just wanted to feel him next to me. To hold him in my arms.

Turning out the light, I felt his body begin to slip into what I hoped was more healing sleep, the medicinal vapors working their way into the swollen tissues in his sinuses and lungs, opening them so he could breathe more easily.

In sleep, his hard body softened like warm caramel. And I couldn’t seem to keep my hands away from that shaggy mop of hair, the cover of darkness giving me permission to savor the touch of each strand. I also ran my nails along the expansive, shirt-covered skin of his back and arms, careful to avoid where I knew raw gashes marred the tattooed landscape. These were things I enjoyed when someone did them to me, so I paid the favor forward, gambling that he would enjoy them, as well.

I was right. After several long moments, he gave a soft whuffle and rolled toward me, curling into the warmth of my body and burrowing his face into my chest with a chuffing sigh.

My rabbit was a cuddler.

I smiled into the darkness, wrapping both arms around him and drawing his sleepy head to rest more comfortably against my chest. When one of his lax arms stole around my waist and a shorter leg wedged its way in between my long ones, I moved whatever I needed to move to make him comfortable.

And was rewarded with another long, bone-shuddering sigh.

Followed by a loud, wall-shaking snore.

My adorable rabbit – with his nasal passages so dreadfully packed with cold - was louder than a chainsaw. All I could do was chuckle, squeeze him lightly, and settled in for the duration.

I fell asleep with his hair tickling my mouth, and a smile on my lips.

Edited August 16, 2015 by starpollen

[Juto]

Wow... I am in L!O!V!E! With your writing. The whole mental discussion and analysis, just perfection!

D'awwwwww his rabbit was a cuddler! That was just the cutest thing and I just melted!!! This story is just fantastic!!!

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Fantastic, fabulous, amazing! I love Travin's devil and angel. Your description of Bayle's congestion and sneezing is meltingly hot. Keep it up!

[starpollen]

PART 11:

I came awake slowly, feeling a happy, languid warmth suffusing my bones, awareness flooded with a contentment I hadn’t had in years that lingered like a perfume in the air.

Turning, I saw Bayle lying on his back, mouth gaping open, still snoring to wake the dead.

Good thing I slept like the dead, sometimes. When I was tired enough? Not even an earthquake could rouse me.

And last night I had been tired. Who knew nursing someone with a bad cold could drain your own energy so much? Or maybe because it wasn’t just anyone. This was Bayle. A whirling dervish of complications that made me both frustrated and soothed, angry and affectionate, protective and perplexed.

Oh, Bayle…

I found myself staring at said blond boy, eyes tracking over his features. Just as I had noticed that first day, his face wasn’t one someone would call ‘handsome’ – the jaw was a little too strong, chin jutting out almost in defiance, his brows a little too thick, forehead a little too wide.

But his eyes…

Even after getting used to the strange combination of his facial features, those deep, piercingly blue eyes still burned me to the core.

The picture of the first time he had looked at me in the aisle at the store rose in my mind:

Dark sapphire, like deep sea waters after a fierce storm. The younger man was looking at me warily, the sharp intelligence in his gaze at odds with the rest of his ragged appearance. Those blue eyes started a warmth swirling deep in my gut. Eyes that seemed to see straight into the deepest parts of me…

Every time he looked at me, I still felt that same juxtaposition. Bayle was gifted yet bereft, aware yet shaken, defiant yet vulnerable…

Deadly attractive combinations.

Even though his eyes were closed now in sleep - lashes dark against his pale cheek - I remembered the times he had looked at me over the past two days. Seeing me like nobody else ever had.

The sunlight was coming through the window, picking up on the lighter strands of gold weaving through his hair. One single beam hit the underside of a chapped nostril so that it seemed backlit - vividly red and translucent. But the light almost seemed to act as a catalyst, and under my sleepy gaze the round opening wriggled into a little flare, a light sniffle disturbing the peace of his rest.

He snorted in reflex, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his brows as he pursed his lips fretfully, loathe to leave the shelter of sleep but slowly urged closer by the insistent tickle. The pesky nostril continued to flare, like an annoying child poking a finger repeatedly and snickering. The wrinkle between his brows got deeper until he was fairly scowling, lips parting to breathe as his nasal passages started to swell and fill up.

Finally, he gave a snuffling snort, bringing a lax hand up to his face for a fumbling scrub. His eyes fluttered, slivering open weakly as he drew a wobbling gasp. "hhh!..." Still half-asleep - focused only on relieving his body's discomfort - he didn't cover in any way.

"hgck'GyyEHIIsch!!..." His lips curled back completely, eyes shut as the twinkling spray arced in the sunlight, hips and shoulders curling up from the mattress.

"Ahhh..." he sighed, sleepily content, relaxing back and leaving his eyes shut as the silver spray rained down on the both of us.

But it didn't last.

His nose twitched again, the end of it glinting wetly, a deep sniffle causing his nostrils to arch open wide to expose inner membranes, quivering and pink. He fought it, sleepily unwilling to exert so much energy, yet too uncomfortable. His brows drew together again, lips parting in soft pants as he brought his palm up to roughly swipe at the offending organ, his brows drawing lower and lower until the sneeze finally worked its way out.

"ihh'GY’EHSSCHt!!”

It snapped him upright into his cupped hands, brain finally awake enough to realize the impending consequences of such forceful, insistent sneezing with a night's worth of congestion sitting idly in his sinuses.

"Huh…huh… hk’GYEZDsch-u!! ... hah!... ah-ah!... gyy'EDZssch! -uhh…" and a final, terrible, "hh'igk-ah!-HAH!... HIZ'NXGyEIUtsch!” that seemed to blast straight from between his eyes. "Unghhh..." he groaned hoarsely, leaving his face in his hands.

I laid a soft hand to his back, taking advantage of his startled flinch to tuck a few tissues in the gap under his chin. "Bless you," I murmured, more than thankful for the pharmacist legacy that gave me my impervious resistance to germs. After twelve years? I had an immune system like a tank.

Bayle took the tissues, turning as far away as he could and still stay on the bed, dabbing and pinching and wiping clumsily with thick sniffles and several attempts to clear his throat.

Plunking the tissue box in his lap, I patted his shoulder with a swift kiss into his hair, "I'll get some more medicine..." rising and shuffling into the kitchen with a massive yawn.

Even though today wasn’t a grouchy day, I made a pot of coffee. I needed the pick-me-up.

It didn't take long to do that and fetch the Tylenol, the daytime cold & flu medicine, some throat drops and my prescription cough medicine. Snatching two mugs down from the cabinet, I also set the kettle on the stove for more hot tea.

I got back to the hallway to find an empty bed full of rumpled sheets, sounds coming from the bathroom letting me know that Bayle was indeed flushing germs from his system, high velocity, along with one congested blow after another, interspersed with thick, deep coughs. When he seemed to come to a stopping point, I stepped back into the bedroom and set everything on the nightstand.

The toilet flushed, and Bayle shuffled back into the bedroom, dropping to sit on the mattress, his elbows resting on his thighs, his head supported by his palms, hair flopped into his eyes.

The weary hunch to his shoulders, the miserable bow of his spine...

"How're you feeling?” I asked gently, sitting next to him on the bed and combing his hair back with my fingers. He raised his face, and I didn't even need him to answer: his dull blue eyes were bloodshot and hollow, his nose so swollen and chapped my own ached in sympathy, his face pale except for two blushing spots high on his cheeks.

He didn't try to speak at first, merely grunted and closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest, swallowing more coughs behind closed lips. Then...

"By head hurtz..." he answered congestedly, then shook his head a little before starting again. "…by throat… chest…” His voice hurt my ears.

The poor, miserably sick guy…

It was obvious that this was gonna be the bottoming-out day, the worst day of his cold. If we could get him through today and tonight, by tomorrow he should be on the up-swing.

"Here," I soothed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders briefly before dosing out as much medicine as he could safely tolerate. “Tylenol… cold medicine… something for your cough… and this will make your throat feel better…” I pushed a red candy-like disc between his chapped lips with my thumb, happy when his eyes closed and he began to suck its analgesic down greedily. “We need to get some more fluids in you: you’re getting dehydrated … you need your inhaler? …”

Bayle’s hand had drifted up to push at his chest, rubbing it as he huffed tight breaths. The answer to my questions was a high, wheezing sigh, which I interpreted to be agreement. I passed him the plastic device and watched as he took another dose of the bitter aerosol, chest expanding and holding still for a long moment before exhaling exhaustedly. After the second puff, his face relaxed a little with what looked like relief.

“Better?” I asked, rubbing my hands reflexively across his shoulders.

He nodded, coughing but seeming to catch his breath easier than he did yesterday. I didn’t know why using the inhaler was something he resisted so stubbornly, but I had a feeling it was all wrapped up in the story of his childhood, his adolescence, that house, that woman…

And he wasn’t ready to go there yet.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was, either. I tended to avoid things I didn’t want to know, and whatever Bayle had been through to bring him to that mattress in that room was definitely something I vehemently didn’t want to know.

"You wanna stay in bed?" I asked, once more petting his hair in that way I knew he liked, unable to keep my hands from touching some part of him in what I hoped was a soothing manner. "Or move out to the couch?"

Bayle thought for a moment, then whispered, "Couch," around careful swallows, the throat drop tucked into one cheek, eyes closed and body bowed in resigned submission to the punishing illness.

"Okay.”

I pulled my comforter off the bed, deciding that a nest was better for long-term lounging than just the fleece throw we’d had last night. The blond shuffled out behind me, hands tucked under his arms for warmth. I moved a couple of the throw pillows to one end, unfurling the blanket to pool at the other, and turned on the TV. "Sit tight. I'll make us something to eat."

Personally, I was never hungry when I was sick. But Bayle merely murmured, "Okgay," sinking down into the cushions with a deep sigh and more coughs. They were lighter, more in response to the fact that his nose was starting to run, the cold medicine kicking in quickly due to his empty stomach.

I made a note to feed him several small meals throughout the day, flooding his body with a steady stream of much-needed nutrients.

It didn't take long to scramble two plates of eggs and heat more hot water for tea. "Do you want anything on your eggs?" I called.

"Ketgchup… ad hod sauce," he rasped back, the effort costing him a few more coughs. And the act of speaking so loudly must have vibrated something in his head, because he began to sneeze.

"hh! -gn'YHEIXSsh! -ih. hehh-k'YIIHNXSsch! -un." The first two got out while he was reaching for the tissues, finally bringing some up to his face for the final wet, "Ukh-h… huh!… kh-eiH’WUPH’SSSch! -unhh."

"Bless you," I set the tea down on the coffee table and handed him the plate of warm eggs, the ketchup and hot sauce bottles, and draped a kitchen towel over his knee.

"Thagks,” he responded, flicking a longing glance at the empty tissue box, then bowing his head into the used tissues to dab lightly.

“We have more,” I reassured him, ducking out to fetch the nearly-full box from the bathroom, mentally calculating what might be left in the box that was in the kitchen and the one in the bedroom. I returned and set the nearly-full box in his lap. “Take what you need, baby. We’ve got plenty.”

The sleep had restored some measure of awareness, and my use of ‘baby’ had him glancing at me sideways with that same unreadable expression. My gut clenched with anxiety, but I pretended not to notice, digging into my own eggs – topped with pickle relish – with gusto.

Bayle squeezed a few lines of ketchup over his, then dumped what had to be half the bottle of hot sauce. My eyes widened as he took a humongous bite, his eyes closing and a hoarse “Mmmm” coming from his raw throat.

“You like spicy food, huh?”

The shaggy blond head nodded, fist shoveling huge mounds eggs into his mouth as if the plate would be taken from him any second.

“Slow down,” I laid a gentle hand on his knee. “I don’t want you choking on me.”

Bayle cocked a half smile at me. “Tasdes bedder whed id’s hod,” he explained, mouth full, before scooping another heap of eggs onto his fork. In no time his plate was empty, his woeful expression turning pitiful baby blue laser beams on me.

I sighed, smiled, finished my eggs… and then went back into the kitchen to make more.

He ate a second plate of red-smeared yellow scramble and drank a glass of orange juice, then sat looking at the empty dish in his hands as if contemplating asking for a third.

“Let’s give it a half hour or so,” I negotiated, reading his mind. “You’ve got a lot of medicine in your system and I don’t want you throwing it all up before it can get to where it needs to go.”

Bayle nodded with a disappointed sigh, reluctantly passing me the tableware. I gave him a hot mug of honeyed tea, admonishing, “Careful, it’s hot,” before going to the kitchen to clean up.

“Yes, bob.”

“Bob?” I called back. “My name’s Travin, remember?”

“Dot ‘Bob,’” he tried to explain, missing that I was teasing him. “Bob, ligke, bob ad dad.”

“Oh, Mom,” I crowed, as if just now understanding. “I thought you’d mistaken me for a hairy construction worker with a beer belly and ass-crack hanging out of his saggy britches.”

He started laughing.

"Let me just get this tractor loaded, Earl... Say, did I tell you I got tickets to the monster truck rally tonight?" I adopted a deeper voice, laying on a thick 'hick' accent.

More laughter, and then I heard a distinct snort, followed by a half-laughed, “…shit…”

Glancing into the living room, I watched the blond using tissues to wipe ineffectually at the tea he’d snorted down the front of his shirt, one shining string of snot stretched from nose to chest.

Which made me start laughing.

Needless to say, dishes ended up piling in the sink as we both collapsed with gut-busting, breath-stealing laughter.

Bayle’s was mixed with hoarse coughing, which I didn’t worry about because I was so glad that he was relaxed and happy. And – you gotta admit – the situation was hilarious.

When the fit tapered off, we were both wiping our streaming eyes and he was blowing his dripping nose.

“You wanna… you wanna take a shower?” I offered, gesturing to the mixture of tea and snot glistening on the front of his long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, tossing the used tissues on the coffee table. “I thig id’s a losd cause.”

I fetched him more clothes – another pair of soft sweat pants and this time a thicker sweatshirt – and ran the water.

“Up you go,” I helped untangle his legs from the nest of blankets, keeping one hand on his back as he made his way to the bathroom. “Just toss the dirty clothes and towels into the washing machine in the hallway. I’m gonna do a load of sheets today.” I tried to wash sheets every day when I was sick, if I wasn’t too sick to do it, the goal to combat germs from both inside and outside my body.

Bayle turned to say something, one hand on the bathroom door frame. As I watched, his face collapsed in that perfect, irritated way. Everything about his expression - tense lips, furrowed brow and the twitching of his red, thoroughly violated nose - begged to be relieved from the grip of his cold-ravaged sinuses. His discomfort was palpable, especially as his nostrils doubled unexpectedly in size.

Pale fingers desperately clutching a handful of tissues flew to his face. “HEGK-GSSHH! --hihh.” Bending his body in half, that heavy exhalation at the end led into a build-up to the next, the harsh sneezes coming with increasing urgency.

“--nng’CHSSHu! -hh!… heh-hh!… AH!…Guh’yeehiiSHSSHuu! -uhnhuhh."

That last exhalation was most decidedly a groan.

"I’b sorry…” he mumbled, thoroughly congested, giving an ineffectual sniffle through immobile passages as he settled for dabbing gingerly at his poor, abused nose with the tissue instead of attempting a much-needed blow.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” I responded, stepping up to him and daring to place my lips against his hair. “You’re sick. It’s allowed. Stay in the shower as long as you need – let the steam break up some of that congestion. Afterwards we’ll put some more Vicks on your chest and then we can watch another movie.”

His blue eyes brightened at the words ‘Vicks’ and ‘movie,’ and I wasn’t sure if it was the promise of being able to breathe combined with what I now understood was a rare visual treat… or whether some part of him was looking forward to my hands giving him another massage, my arms cuddling him on the couch…

I hoped it was both.

Edited August 6, 2015 by starpollen

[Juto]

Ahhhhh this is just delicious!!! The caretaking... Ohhh... the caretaking!! Travin is a sneaky caretaker though... With his pet names and his daring kisses...but it's just so DAMN CUTE!!!!!

[jezebel215]

:-)

<sigh>

[snowshie]

I just need to tell you how excited I was to see your name on this post. I've been a fan of yours for ages, and have probably read your French chef fic about fifty times. Ahem.

This is absolutely lovely. Thank you for sharing this with the forum!

[Melody]

Your writing and these characters are absolutely epic! You are doing a great job! And those tattoos <3

[telltale]

This has so many of my favourite things. I'm just in love with it!