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A small ficlet for pseudoblu, who wanted non-angsty twins gen :) I hope it'll tide you over until something else comes along!
Title: Hush
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: G
Summary: Tom feels sick. Bill takes care of him.
“La lalala lala lala!“
With difficulty, Tom suppressed a groan. Bill was happy, and a happy Bill was a singing Bill, a singing Bill on a mission to make everyone around him feel the same way he did.
Tom wasn’t happy. He could feel a head cold coming on, he was sniffling and shivering and he was pretty sure he was running a fever. Even moving his fingers to feel for the next chord seemed like a chore, and the guitar pick felt heavy in his hand as if it was made out of lead. Sighing, he rested the guitar in his lap, sank back into the cushions of the too-soft hotel couch and closed his eyes.
“La lalala lala lala!“
Usually, his twin’s cheer would’ve made Tom feel better, but he had a headache and Bill’s lalala-ing was making it worse. The fact that Bill seemed totally oblivious to Tom’s suffering increased his annoyance. Bill could be unbelievably self-absorbed, but not usually at his twin’s expense. Tom frowned as his brother skipped past the couch, his boots clop-clop-clopping against the hardwood floor. The two of them weren’t often so out of sync with each other, but when it happened, things could get ugly, and fast.
“Bill,” he said with all the patience he could muster. “Shut up for a minute, okay?” Tom winced. He sounded frazzled and irritated even to his own ears. “My head hurts,” he tacked on.
“Oh,” Bill said, “‘Kay.” He stopped fluttering about like an overenergetic, sparkly silver butterfly and actually sat down at a desk by the window, pen and notebook in hand, to work.
Tom made a face at his brother’s back. He could’ve used a little comforting, but Bill was obliviously bouncing in his seat to his own inner, upbeat rhythm, and taking no notice of his twin’s distress. Little pinpricks of white light were dancing painfully behind Tom’s closed eyelids, stabbing like needles at his brain. He wished he could lie down in his bed, have someone draw the curtains and put an ice pack on his head and fetch him some tea and painkillers, but they had two more interviews coming up later and the one who was supposed to play nurse seemed to have switched off his twin antenna for the day, anyway.
“La lalala lala lala!“
Tom gritted his teeth. He was sure that Bill wasn’t doing it on purpose. Bill probably wasn’t even aware he was singing at all, and yet, Tom was quickly reaching the end of his patience. If only he’d had the energy to get up and whack Bill across the head.
”Bill!”
“What? Oh!” Bill slapped a hand before his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled through his fingers.
“Please shut up.”
“Yes, all right! Sorry.”
Tom didn’t have to open his eyes to visualize the pout that went with his brother’s sullen tone. Great. Now Bill would be pissy and snappish and needle Tom until Tom’s aching head exploded or Tom roused himself enough from his sick stupor and snapped back at him, and so the stage was set for a spectacularly nasty show. Tom didn’t need that. He wanted some drugs, he wanted his bed, he wanted the silent comfort of Bill’s presence, warm and sympathetic and quiet beside him.
“You’re such a grouch.”
“Hmph.”
“Excuse me for being cheerful.”
“No,” Tom grumbled.
Bill harrumphed. “What’s wrong with you today?”
Tom didn’t want to have to explain. “Nothing,” he said miserably, sinking more deeply into the couch. The room seemed to spin around him as he tilted his head back, but it was too heavy and achy to lift again. Muted spotlights were scattered across the ceiling above him, and they danced around his head until he felt nauseous and tired with the effort of sorting out their patterns. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow down the wave of sickness that swirled and crashed against the walls of his stomach.
Then, a cool hand was laid against his forehead, something cold and metallic came to rest between his eyebrows, anchoring his focus so the world stopped spinning out of control around him, and Bill’s voice, much quieter now, said, “You’re ill.”
“Hmph.” Tom was still annoyed that it’d taken Bill so long to catch on, but the hand on his brow was nice and cool and so he didn’t feel like complaining.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were just grumpy because David scheduled those interviews on such short notice.” Bill’s hand disappeared, only to start tugging on Tom’s bandana. “I thought… Let me take that off, your head needs air too!... I thought maybe you’d snap out of it if I was cheerful. You know, as you usually do.”
Tom cracked his eyes open to find his brother’s upside-down face hovering above him, blocking the harsh little lights. “I’m plenty cheerful all by myself,” he protested.
“Hmm,” Bill made noncommittally, took away the guitar and placed it in its case. “C’mon, off to bed.”
“Interview,” Tom reminded him half-heartedly even as he let Bill drag him off the couch and into the bedroom.
“Forget it,” Bill said, grunting a little with the effort of supporting Tom’s weight. In the bedroom, he shoved Tom face-first onto the mattress, and before Tom knew it, his shoes were gone, the curtains were closed and he was covered with a heavy down duvet that almost swallowed him up. Tom buried his face in the pillow and listened to the sound of Bill’s footfalls as Bill rummaged around in the other room. He returned moments later, sat down on the edge of the bed, and then something freezing and wet hit the back of Tom’s neck and made him jump.
“Ahhh! Do you want to kill me?”
“We need to bring the fever down,” Bill informed him in the tones of their mother. “You’re burning up.”
As if Tom hadn’t known that. “Uhhhh,” he groaned miserably. “Make it go away.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, make it go away now.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll take care of everything.” Bill had finally adjusted his voice to a pitch appropriate for the sickbed and now sounded like an old lady sweet-talking her pet poodle. “You just stay here and rest. Good boy.”
Tom opened one eye to glare. “We’re not at dog training.”
“No?” Bill smirked. “Your puppy eyes had me confused.”
“Our puppy eyes,” Tom retorted.
“Whatever.” Bill dismissed him with a careless gesture. He toed off his boots and pulled up his legs underneath him, then flipped the ice pack on the back of Tom’s neck over to the colder side.
Tom jumped. “Ahhh! Damn! Will you stop that, you’re making it worse!”
“Shh!” Bill made. “I told you to get some rest.”
“You’re an awful nurse!” Tom grumbled.
He could practically hear Bill’s grin. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Shut up.” Tom so would. A sexy blonde in a skimpy nurse outfit would be nice, for starters. A nice, cool sponge bath wouldn’t hurt. And then she could give him mouth-to-mouth--
Something thudded on the floor beside the bed, effectively ending Tom’s lovely fantasy. He blinked crossly and found that the lights had been dimmed and Bill’s boots were on the floor, while Bill himself bounced on the bed, apparently trying to make Tom feel better about his headache by giving him motion sickness to boot.
“Oh god, whatever you’re doing, stop!” Tom moaned.
“I’m just trying to make you comfortable.”
“Stop,” Tom insisted. “Please!”
Bill grunted something, and Tom gasped shrilly as a blanket was thrown over his head, effectively cutting off the air, a bony arm was shoved beneath his head in lieu of a pillow and a knee clad in acid-wash denim hit him hard in the back as Bill half-draped himself over his twin. Suddenly, Tom was caught in a cocoon of crisp white sheets, soft pillows and warm brother, and when his momentary claustrophobia subsided, he actually felt snug and well-wrapped in cotton, down and rough affection.
“There!” Bill whispered from somewhere above his left ear. Under the blankets, it was nice and dark, no lights to sting Tom’s eyes. “Isn’t this nice? We haven’t build a fort in ages.”
“That’s because we aren’t five anymore,” Tom remarked, but his annoyance sounded half-hearted at best. He could feel the tension drain out of his aching limbs as they sank deep into the mattress together. Under his cheek, the pulse in Bill’s wrist drummed quiet and steady like the beat of a faraway, long-forgotten song; Tom imagined that it must’ve been like this, in the beginning, when they had come into existence wrapped around each other, unable to fathom that they could ever be apart. He still couldn’t imagine it. Didn’t want to.
“It’s still nice,” Bill said, as if he’d read Tom’s mind. “Cuddling can cure anything, and even if it doesn’t, I’ll probably catch what you have so at least we’ll suffer together. And now go to sleep, I’ll even shut up, don’t worry.”
Tom chuckled. “Nah, don’t. Wouldn’t feel right.”
“Is this where you compare my deep, insightful philosophizing to whale song again? Ambience CDs?”
“Hmm,” Tom made noncommittally. He was drifting off on the steadily murmuring stream of Bill’s voice, being carried away towards the endless blue depths of his imagined oceans, where no waves crashed against the shore and all was deep, still water.
Title: Hush
Pairing: none, gen
Rating: G
Summary: Tom feels sick. Bill takes care of him.
“La lalala lala lala!“
With difficulty, Tom suppressed a groan. Bill was happy, and a happy Bill was a singing Bill, a singing Bill on a mission to make everyone around him feel the same way he did.
Tom wasn’t happy. He could feel a head cold coming on, he was sniffling and shivering and he was pretty sure he was running a fever. Even moving his fingers to feel for the next chord seemed like a chore, and the guitar pick felt heavy in his hand as if it was made out of lead. Sighing, he rested the guitar in his lap, sank back into the cushions of the too-soft hotel couch and closed his eyes.
“La lalala lala lala!“
Usually, his twin’s cheer would’ve made Tom feel better, but he had a headache and Bill’s lalala-ing was making it worse. The fact that Bill seemed totally oblivious to Tom’s suffering increased his annoyance. Bill could be unbelievably self-absorbed, but not usually at his twin’s expense. Tom frowned as his brother skipped past the couch, his boots clop-clop-clopping against the hardwood floor. The two of them weren’t often so out of sync with each other, but when it happened, things could get ugly, and fast.
“Bill,” he said with all the patience he could muster. “Shut up for a minute, okay?” Tom winced. He sounded frazzled and irritated even to his own ears. “My head hurts,” he tacked on.
“Oh,” Bill said, “‘Kay.” He stopped fluttering about like an overenergetic, sparkly silver butterfly and actually sat down at a desk by the window, pen and notebook in hand, to work.
Tom made a face at his brother’s back. He could’ve used a little comforting, but Bill was obliviously bouncing in his seat to his own inner, upbeat rhythm, and taking no notice of his twin’s distress. Little pinpricks of white light were dancing painfully behind Tom’s closed eyelids, stabbing like needles at his brain. He wished he could lie down in his bed, have someone draw the curtains and put an ice pack on his head and fetch him some tea and painkillers, but they had two more interviews coming up later and the one who was supposed to play nurse seemed to have switched off his twin antenna for the day, anyway.
“La lalala lala lala!“
Tom gritted his teeth. He was sure that Bill wasn’t doing it on purpose. Bill probably wasn’t even aware he was singing at all, and yet, Tom was quickly reaching the end of his patience. If only he’d had the energy to get up and whack Bill across the head.
”Bill!”
“What? Oh!” Bill slapped a hand before his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled through his fingers.
“Please shut up.”
“Yes, all right! Sorry.”
Tom didn’t have to open his eyes to visualize the pout that went with his brother’s sullen tone. Great. Now Bill would be pissy and snappish and needle Tom until Tom’s aching head exploded or Tom roused himself enough from his sick stupor and snapped back at him, and so the stage was set for a spectacularly nasty show. Tom didn’t need that. He wanted some drugs, he wanted his bed, he wanted the silent comfort of Bill’s presence, warm and sympathetic and quiet beside him.
“You’re such a grouch.”
“Hmph.”
“Excuse me for being cheerful.”
“No,” Tom grumbled.
Bill harrumphed. “What’s wrong with you today?”
Tom didn’t want to have to explain. “Nothing,” he said miserably, sinking more deeply into the couch. The room seemed to spin around him as he tilted his head back, but it was too heavy and achy to lift again. Muted spotlights were scattered across the ceiling above him, and they danced around his head until he felt nauseous and tired with the effort of sorting out their patterns. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow down the wave of sickness that swirled and crashed against the walls of his stomach.
Then, a cool hand was laid against his forehead, something cold and metallic came to rest between his eyebrows, anchoring his focus so the world stopped spinning out of control around him, and Bill’s voice, much quieter now, said, “You’re ill.”
“Hmph.” Tom was still annoyed that it’d taken Bill so long to catch on, but the hand on his brow was nice and cool and so he didn’t feel like complaining.
“I’m sorry, I thought you were just grumpy because David scheduled those interviews on such short notice.” Bill’s hand disappeared, only to start tugging on Tom’s bandana. “I thought… Let me take that off, your head needs air too!... I thought maybe you’d snap out of it if I was cheerful. You know, as you usually do.”
Tom cracked his eyes open to find his brother’s upside-down face hovering above him, blocking the harsh little lights. “I’m plenty cheerful all by myself,” he protested.
“Hmm,” Bill made noncommittally, took away the guitar and placed it in its case. “C’mon, off to bed.”
“Interview,” Tom reminded him half-heartedly even as he let Bill drag him off the couch and into the bedroom.
“Forget it,” Bill said, grunting a little with the effort of supporting Tom’s weight. In the bedroom, he shoved Tom face-first onto the mattress, and before Tom knew it, his shoes were gone, the curtains were closed and he was covered with a heavy down duvet that almost swallowed him up. Tom buried his face in the pillow and listened to the sound of Bill’s footfalls as Bill rummaged around in the other room. He returned moments later, sat down on the edge of the bed, and then something freezing and wet hit the back of Tom’s neck and made him jump.
“Ahhh! Do you want to kill me?”
“We need to bring the fever down,” Bill informed him in the tones of their mother. “You’re burning up.”
As if Tom hadn’t known that. “Uhhhh,” he groaned miserably. “Make it go away.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, make it go away now.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll take care of everything.” Bill had finally adjusted his voice to a pitch appropriate for the sickbed and now sounded like an old lady sweet-talking her pet poodle. “You just stay here and rest. Good boy.”
Tom opened one eye to glare. “We’re not at dog training.”
“No?” Bill smirked. “Your puppy eyes had me confused.”
“Our puppy eyes,” Tom retorted.
“Whatever.” Bill dismissed him with a careless gesture. He toed off his boots and pulled up his legs underneath him, then flipped the ice pack on the back of Tom’s neck over to the colder side.
Tom jumped. “Ahhh! Damn! Will you stop that, you’re making it worse!”
“Shh!” Bill made. “I told you to get some rest.”
“You’re an awful nurse!” Tom grumbled.
He could practically hear Bill’s grin. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Shut up.” Tom so would. A sexy blonde in a skimpy nurse outfit would be nice, for starters. A nice, cool sponge bath wouldn’t hurt. And then she could give him mouth-to-mouth--
Something thudded on the floor beside the bed, effectively ending Tom’s lovely fantasy. He blinked crossly and found that the lights had been dimmed and Bill’s boots were on the floor, while Bill himself bounced on the bed, apparently trying to make Tom feel better about his headache by giving him motion sickness to boot.
“Oh god, whatever you’re doing, stop!” Tom moaned.
“I’m just trying to make you comfortable.”
“Stop,” Tom insisted. “Please!”
Bill grunted something, and Tom gasped shrilly as a blanket was thrown over his head, effectively cutting off the air, a bony arm was shoved beneath his head in lieu of a pillow and a knee clad in acid-wash denim hit him hard in the back as Bill half-draped himself over his twin. Suddenly, Tom was caught in a cocoon of crisp white sheets, soft pillows and warm brother, and when his momentary claustrophobia subsided, he actually felt snug and well-wrapped in cotton, down and rough affection.
“There!” Bill whispered from somewhere above his left ear. Under the blankets, it was nice and dark, no lights to sting Tom’s eyes. “Isn’t this nice? We haven’t build a fort in ages.”
“That’s because we aren’t five anymore,” Tom remarked, but his annoyance sounded half-hearted at best. He could feel the tension drain out of his aching limbs as they sank deep into the mattress together. Under his cheek, the pulse in Bill’s wrist drummed quiet and steady like the beat of a faraway, long-forgotten song; Tom imagined that it must’ve been like this, in the beginning, when they had come into existence wrapped around each other, unable to fathom that they could ever be apart. He still couldn’t imagine it. Didn’t want to.
“It’s still nice,” Bill said, as if he’d read Tom’s mind. “Cuddling can cure anything, and even if it doesn’t, I’ll probably catch what you have so at least we’ll suffer together. And now go to sleep, I’ll even shut up, don’t worry.”
Tom chuckled. “Nah, don’t. Wouldn’t feel right.”
“Is this where you compare my deep, insightful philosophizing to whale song again? Ambience CDs?”
“Hmm,” Tom made noncommittally. He was drifting off on the steadily murmuring stream of Bill’s voice, being carried away towards the endless blue depths of his imagined oceans, where no waves crashed against the shore and all was deep, still water.