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This page last viewed: 2017-04-27 and has been viewed 3843 times
Rating: NC-17 Just to be safe.
Warning: Nothing heavy. Slash, anyways. Might be humour in places, no promises though.
Summary: Face is unwell and doesn't Murdock know about it
Notes: Happy birthday Logan! It's an odd one but there's an old friend making a cameo appearance in it. Thanks to Elizabeth for suggesting I 'channel' my cold!
'Face, just shut up and drink your lemon. I swear you are the *worst* patient.'
It was typical. Hannibal had been getting really strict lately about the amount of time Murdock was spending out of the VA. Then Face had gone down with this heavy cold on the last mission. Well, not just a cold, he'd gotten a few bruises, too, which would be very difficult to explain to any lady friends who might otherwise be called upon to act as nursemaid. So *now*, when it was *someone else's* turn to be the patient, Murdock got to be out for as long as it took.
And Face was pathetic when he was ill. All whiney and annoying. He wasn't even that nice to look at, red faced and bleary eyed, leaking out of every orifice. And talk about *grumpy*.
'I don't wanna, Murdock. I hate lemon. How 'bout a shot of whisky in that?'
Murdock shook his head. 'Nuh-uh. That stuff you took earlier said 'no alkyhol' on the pack. Now drink your lemon and go to sleep.'
Face muttered a string of non-words under his breath, swigged at the mug (Murdock had topped it up with a little cold water, so he wouldn't burn himself), and slid down under the covers. Murdock smiled, and headed downstairs to catch up on his TV.
Under any other circumstances, this would be Murdock's dream come true. Full permission to wait on Face hand and foot for days, maybe even weeks. A license to lavish.
He quite liked the sound of that. HM Murdock, 007, licensed to lavish. Lavish? Lust? Leer? Hmm. All of them would work ok.
He and Face had spent a few nights together. More than a few, adding them up over the years. Nothing serious, nothing heavy, just an as-and-when thing. But Murdock had been on his own for quite a while lately, and 'when' was now, and 'as' was as soon as he could get it.
It just wasn't fair. Here he was, feeling massively oversexed, still buzzing from the last mission, just had a haircut, got new jeans, feeling pretty lean, pretty strong, just incredibly in the mood. Here he was, in this
fantastic house with its deep, soft carpets, huge resilient looking sofas, endless wine cellar (Face always got a little adventurous after a drink or two), hot tub - HOT TUB, dammit. Here he was, with everything perfect, and the object of his affections was languishing upstairs, mucus ridden, lethargic, in crumpled faded cotton pyjamas, hair greasy, skin powder dry, bad tempered and generally falling far short of devastatingly attractive.
Which probably wasn't doing a lot for Face, either.
Murdock sighed. The voice yelling from upstairs didn't sound exactly weak and feeble. What would he want this time? A hot water bottle? Another drink? A newspaper? His pillows plumped?
He put down the TV guide. This was a very high price to pay for a few days off the ward.
Eventually Face dropped off to sleep. If it hadn't been for the little trail of spit running down his chin (he couldn't breath through his nose yet), he'd have looked pretty good. Murdock watched him a while. Then he moved his chair round to the other side of the bed.
Yes, that was better. From this angle, he couldn't see the drool at all. It just looked like Face was asleep with his lips parted. Temptingly. Tempting Temp. Tempting Tempestuous Temp. His chest rose and fell a little further than usual, and as Murdock followed the movement with his eyes, a pang of longing shot through him. In the dim light, Face's skin was as smooth and flawless as it had ever been. His hair shone just like it always did.
His thin pyjama top was bunched up around his chest, and Murdock knew if he lifted the covers, he'd see a tight, firm stomach, see the sparse dark curls growing more dense as they moved down towards...
The patient moved in his sleep, rolling over slightly to face Murdock.
Damn. There was that drool again. Well, maybe he could still catch the second half of the Bogart movie. Better things to watch downstairs.
Murdock was awoken by the sound and aroma of a mug of coffee clunking down on the table beside him. He stretched out and rubbed his neck where it hurt.
Damn. He hated falling asleep on the couch. He hated sleeping in his clothes. All his muscles ached. He hoped he wasn't picking up Face's cold; he'd been eating six oranges a day to try and stave it off, in the hope that *maybe*, if Face was feeling a little better, and Murdock still had all this energy...
'Gonna hit the shower,' said Face.
Well, that had to be a good sign, didn't it?
Murdock decided he might just grab some time in the downstairs en-suite himself.
No such luck, though. Face did not emerge in a big fluffy bath robe, a glistening and appealingly moist Adonis. He did not make an entrance in sprayed-on jeans and open neck shirt, casual Casanova that he was. Nor did he appear in the silk pyjamas which Murdock adored, begging as they were to be fondled between fingertips, smoothed over the curves and angles of the body beneath.
No. He slumped, damp haired and still red eyed, onto the sofa beside Murdock, in a fresh pair of...
... tatty old cotton pyjamas, faded, greying, bobbled in places.
'You'll catch your death,' he said, indicating the very small towel wrapped around Murdock's waist.
Murdock nodded in agreement, and headed off to the guest bedroom for a rummage through his overnight bag.
Face was in a better mood, though. They played some scrabble. Murdock did his very best to drop hints; he made 'bed', 'legs', and 'libido.' He'd almost got 'horizontal' on a double word score, but Face had used his 't' for 'celibate.'
He made sure, however, that Face didn't take too much of his medicine as the afternoon turned into evening. He let Face have a little drink.
Which, he reflected, as he carried his gently snoring friend up to bed, may have been more due to a combination of miscalculating the dosage and wishful thinking, than actual forward planning.
A night of tossing and turning. Trying so hard not to think about Face. Face who was almost better. Face who was sleeping upstairs. Face who needed looking after. Face who needed to be taken care of.
Murdock tried so hard not to touch himself. Tried so hard just to wait, wait until Face was well enough.
But he couldn't. His mind kept wandering to Face in the shower, all wet and glistening; Face toweling himself off, real slow, muscles moving under skin. Face asleep with his lips parted, inviting bites, caresses, teeth, tongue.
Murdock was haunted, awake and asleep, by the images.
He didn't like to; not in someone else's bed. A stranger's bed.
But he was so .. so .. so ..
No one had to know, did they? Well, he could be tidy, couldn't he?
He reached for his holdall, and started looking for a sock. Well, he wanted to at least use a *clean* one.
He'd just got one sorted, a nice, soft, white sock, slid it on his hand to ruck it up before sliding it over his.. well, his.. when ..
The bedroom door opened. Murdock started, hoping he didn't look too shifty.
Oh. Oh my. Didn't look like Face was too bothered what Murdock was up to. Looked like Face had plans of his own.
Looked like Face was feeling better. *All* of Face was feeling better. And suddenly Murdock had a naked man slithering over the covers towards him.
'Watchya doin', Murdock,' Face whispered in his ear.
Um. Tricky one. Murdock thought fast and bent his wrist inside the sock, tucking the heel in to make a little mouth. He made the sock 'talk.'
'Mornin' Face,' it said, in a squeaky voice emanating from Murdock.
'Face, meet Socki,' said Murdock.
'Oh,' said Face, and looked at the sock. Then he looked at Murdock. 'How old is Socki?'
'Bout twelve?' asked Murdock, wondering why that mattered.
'Oh,' said Face, taking hold of the ribbing around Murdock's arm. 'In that case,' peeling the fabric off, 'he's far too young to be here. He wouldn't understand what I'm about to do to you, Murdock.'
And one now silent tennis sock landed in the farthest corner of the room.
Murdock was glad he hadn't gotten as far as drawing eyes on it. This was something no sock should ever have to see.
Murdock rolled over onto Face's body, and snuggled into arms which were busy wrapping themselves around him.
Face had only been ill for four days. Hannibal had reckoned a week. They might be able to squeeze a couple more days out of this.
It had been to long. Just being around Face now gave him goosebumps. He could feel them now, even under the covers, even against Face's hot body, cold fingers walking along his spine, tracing his arms.
He wrinkled his nose a little.
He snuggled in closer, to get really warm.
And he sneezed. All over Face's chest.
Face sighed, and got out of bed. 'I'll get you some hot lemon,' he said.
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