Takes on Spots: One, by Sophonisba [backstory challenge]
-title- Takes on Spots (1/5)
-author- Sophonisba (saphanibaal)
-rating- Suitable for general audiences.
-characters- Ford
-disclaimer- SGA, of course, is not mine.
-word count- 1312
-summary- In which it is shown that being sick is miserable, especially when one is away from home.
Takes on Spots: One
When Aiden Ford was seven, he went to his mother's for a visit.
Her apartment was white with hardwood floors, full of spindly-legged furniture and the occasional little rug or glass bowl or vase out by itself. There was nowhere, really, to run around and nowhere that felt like somewhere anyone could be comfortable. Even her bedroom was all white and cream, and she carefully tidied up Aiden's things and hid his suitcase in her closet.
All the white walls made his eyes hurt, and after the first day he didn't feel as much like running around, much to his mother's relief. He colored in his coloring books and played with his Transformers, and she only had to tell him three times to keep his voice down, they were inside.
She had a party one afternoon, mostly people from her work, and Aiden could always tell which ones she hadn't told about him; even the friendlier ones shot a second glance at his brown skin and her fair face. His mother blushed, sometimes, even as she lifted her chin, and Aiden was glad that it wasn't as obvious how flushed he was.
They were mostly milling around the dining table where she had laid out the food, and so he went over to the living-room area and lay down on the couch. He thought about putting the throw blanket on the back of the couch over himself, but he was so, so hot.
And then he was so cold, so very cold, and he pulled the blanket down over himself and his face, shivering and shivering.
"Not feeling up to chatting with the guests, kiddo?" the one guest his mother had invited over the day before asked. His mother had introduced her as "Cathy," but Aiden's grandparents had raised him too well to be comfortable calling a grown woman by her given name.
"Nngh," said Aiden, which had been meant to be "No, Miz Cathy" before it actually tried to get out his throat.
And then there was a delightfully warm and cool hand on his temple for a moment before it was jerked away. Aiden actually whimpered for a moment (which he would deny ever after, he wasn't a baby), but fortunately it was lost in the woman's yelp of "Jesus, Diane, the kid's burning up!"
And then his mother was there, helping him to his feet and to her own dim white bedroom and into the soft white bed, drawing the smooth white sheets and the heavy white feather duvet over him and lowering the blinds.
"I'll get a thermometer, I don't have one right now," his mother said. "And I'll get everyone out of here -- do you want me to sit with you, Aiden?"
"You don't have to," Aiden said muzzily. "You shouldn't have to give up your party."
"Oh, hon," his mother said. She rubbed little circles on his back. "Would you like some music, or would that make it worse? Some hot milk? What do you want?"
"I want to stop being hot and cold and hot and cold," Aiden mumbled around the headache that had moved in behind his right eye. "I want this headache to go away. I want Grandma."
His mother's hand went very still for a moment, and then she rubbed a few more circles. "I'll just... see about things and call the doctor, and then I'll be right here," she said, rising to her feet and pulling the door to behind her.
The rest of that day all blurred into itself, although there was the part where he had to stick a thermometer under his tongue ("Jim ran out and got it for me," his mother told him) and the bits where his mother was talking on the telephone on the nighttable and sounding more and more upset. She hadn't had to send her party home, really, he'd have understood... he'd almost have rather she'd gone back out and had fun with her party rather than have her fluttering in and out of the darkened bedroom while his brain played the kettledrums on his skull.
The next morning, after his mother made him hot milk (and it was skim milk, so it might as well have been water, honestly) she bundled him up in his sweater and his coat and the throw blanket and took him to see a strange doctor. Aiden felt much better than he had, but there were strange little bumps on his cheeks and the back of his hands. They weren't chicken pox, because he'd seen pictures of kids with chicken pox, and when Tyrone had come over to play after getting better from chicken pox he'd had a pock scab come out in his hair, which had been... interesting.
The waiting room of the doctor's office didn't have any toys to play with or fish to watch swim around. One of the science magazines on the tables had an article about dinosaurs, though, and Aiden read all about dinosaurs with feathers and how birds (!) were probably descended from them until he was called in to see the doctor, who turned out to be a friendly short lady. Aiden would still rather have seen Dr. Henderson, who made funny faces and always had Tootsie Pops.
This doctor's hands were cold, but at least not damp, and it wasn't that bad except for the part where she pressed on sore spots under his ears that he hadn't really noticed until suddenly she was squashing them.
She didn't have Tootsie Pops, either, although she offered Aiden mints. They came in a little metal box that said "The original curiously strong peppermints ALTOIDS." Aiden took two, and the doctor called his mother in while the top of his head blew off.
"Well, it looks like Aiden's got a classic case of rubella," the doctor told his mother. "Give him plenty of fluids and -- "
"Rubella?" Diane Ford repeated. "He should have been vaccinated for that!"
"According to the fax from Dr. Henderson's office, he's had his MMRs," the doctor shrugged. "Rubella is one of the few diseases that you can get twice; now and then the immunization doesn't take for some reason. Aiden, you're going to want to get lots of bed rest, drink lots of fluids, and take Tylenol three times a day."
"Shouldn't he have antibiotics?" Diane demanded.
The doctor rolled her eyes. "If you want to desensitize bacteria to them and eventually kill off millions with a simple infection we could have nuked ten years ago, sure. Seriously. Children's Tylenol. Call me if three times a day doesn't do enough for his headache."
So then Aiden was bundled back up and taken back to his mother's apartment, where she made him up a bed with her spare sheets and an extra blanket on the couch, and he watched television in between nodding off and determining that, while skim milk was sort of tolerable mixed in with hot sweet tea, if adults willingly ate garlic-ginger mint-marjoram coconut curry vegetable soup, he was never, ever, growing up.
And then, when he blinked himself awake again in the late afternoon, a blessedly familiar voice said "Hey."
"Hey, Grandma," Aiden said. She was still wearing her knit orange-gold sweater-cape, and the straw hat with the orange-gold shiny scarf of a hatband was on the coffee table. "How'd you get here?"
"Your mother called me, and I came," his grandma said matter-of-factly. "How're you feeling, pumpkin?"
Aiden groaned expressively.
"I can see that," his grandma said. "Do you think maybe you'd be up to some of my turkey noodle soup?"
"Yes, please," Aiden told her. He conscientiously amplified, for the sake of his mother twisting her hands nervously in the chair on the right, "Grandma makes the best turkey noodle soup."
-author- Sophonisba (saphanibaal)
-rating- Suitable for general audiences.
-characters- Ford
-disclaimer- SGA, of course, is not mine.
-word count- 1312
-summary- In which it is shown that being sick is miserable, especially when one is away from home.
Takes on Spots: One
When Aiden Ford was seven, he went to his mother's for a visit.
Her apartment was white with hardwood floors, full of spindly-legged furniture and the occasional little rug or glass bowl or vase out by itself. There was nowhere, really, to run around and nowhere that felt like somewhere anyone could be comfortable. Even her bedroom was all white and cream, and she carefully tidied up Aiden's things and hid his suitcase in her closet.
All the white walls made his eyes hurt, and after the first day he didn't feel as much like running around, much to his mother's relief. He colored in his coloring books and played with his Transformers, and she only had to tell him three times to keep his voice down, they were inside.
She had a party one afternoon, mostly people from her work, and Aiden could always tell which ones she hadn't told about him; even the friendlier ones shot a second glance at his brown skin and her fair face. His mother blushed, sometimes, even as she lifted her chin, and Aiden was glad that it wasn't as obvious how flushed he was.
They were mostly milling around the dining table where she had laid out the food, and so he went over to the living-room area and lay down on the couch. He thought about putting the throw blanket on the back of the couch over himself, but he was so, so hot.
And then he was so cold, so very cold, and he pulled the blanket down over himself and his face, shivering and shivering.
"Not feeling up to chatting with the guests, kiddo?" the one guest his mother had invited over the day before asked. His mother had introduced her as "Cathy," but Aiden's grandparents had raised him too well to be comfortable calling a grown woman by her given name.
"Nngh," said Aiden, which had been meant to be "No, Miz Cathy" before it actually tried to get out his throat.
And then there was a delightfully warm and cool hand on his temple for a moment before it was jerked away. Aiden actually whimpered for a moment (which he would deny ever after, he wasn't a baby), but fortunately it was lost in the woman's yelp of "Jesus, Diane, the kid's burning up!"
And then his mother was there, helping him to his feet and to her own dim white bedroom and into the soft white bed, drawing the smooth white sheets and the heavy white feather duvet over him and lowering the blinds.
"I'll get a thermometer, I don't have one right now," his mother said. "And I'll get everyone out of here -- do you want me to sit with you, Aiden?"
"You don't have to," Aiden said muzzily. "You shouldn't have to give up your party."
"Oh, hon," his mother said. She rubbed little circles on his back. "Would you like some music, or would that make it worse? Some hot milk? What do you want?"
"I want to stop being hot and cold and hot and cold," Aiden mumbled around the headache that had moved in behind his right eye. "I want this headache to go away. I want Grandma."
His mother's hand went very still for a moment, and then she rubbed a few more circles. "I'll just... see about things and call the doctor, and then I'll be right here," she said, rising to her feet and pulling the door to behind her.
The rest of that day all blurred into itself, although there was the part where he had to stick a thermometer under his tongue ("Jim ran out and got it for me," his mother told him) and the bits where his mother was talking on the telephone on the nighttable and sounding more and more upset. She hadn't had to send her party home, really, he'd have understood... he'd almost have rather she'd gone back out and had fun with her party rather than have her fluttering in and out of the darkened bedroom while his brain played the kettledrums on his skull.
The next morning, after his mother made him hot milk (and it was skim milk, so it might as well have been water, honestly) she bundled him up in his sweater and his coat and the throw blanket and took him to see a strange doctor. Aiden felt much better than he had, but there were strange little bumps on his cheeks and the back of his hands. They weren't chicken pox, because he'd seen pictures of kids with chicken pox, and when Tyrone had come over to play after getting better from chicken pox he'd had a pock scab come out in his hair, which had been... interesting.
The waiting room of the doctor's office didn't have any toys to play with or fish to watch swim around. One of the science magazines on the tables had an article about dinosaurs, though, and Aiden read all about dinosaurs with feathers and how birds (!) were probably descended from them until he was called in to see the doctor, who turned out to be a friendly short lady. Aiden would still rather have seen Dr. Henderson, who made funny faces and always had Tootsie Pops.
This doctor's hands were cold, but at least not damp, and it wasn't that bad except for the part where she pressed on sore spots under his ears that he hadn't really noticed until suddenly she was squashing them.
She didn't have Tootsie Pops, either, although she offered Aiden mints. They came in a little metal box that said "The original curiously strong peppermints ALTOIDS." Aiden took two, and the doctor called his mother in while the top of his head blew off.
"Well, it looks like Aiden's got a classic case of rubella," the doctor told his mother. "Give him plenty of fluids and -- "
"Rubella?" Diane Ford repeated. "He should have been vaccinated for that!"
"According to the fax from Dr. Henderson's office, he's had his MMRs," the doctor shrugged. "Rubella is one of the few diseases that you can get twice; now and then the immunization doesn't take for some reason. Aiden, you're going to want to get lots of bed rest, drink lots of fluids, and take Tylenol three times a day."
"Shouldn't he have antibiotics?" Diane demanded.
The doctor rolled her eyes. "If you want to desensitize bacteria to them and eventually kill off millions with a simple infection we could have nuked ten years ago, sure. Seriously. Children's Tylenol. Call me if three times a day doesn't do enough for his headache."
So then Aiden was bundled back up and taken back to his mother's apartment, where she made him up a bed with her spare sheets and an extra blanket on the couch, and he watched television in between nodding off and determining that, while skim milk was sort of tolerable mixed in with hot sweet tea, if adults willingly ate garlic-ginger mint-marjoram coconut curry vegetable soup, he was never, ever, growing up.
And then, when he blinked himself awake again in the late afternoon, a blessedly familiar voice said "Hey."
"Hey, Grandma," Aiden said. She was still wearing her knit orange-gold sweater-cape, and the straw hat with the orange-gold shiny scarf of a hatband was on the coffee table. "How'd you get here?"
"Your mother called me, and I came," his grandma said matter-of-factly. "How're you feeling, pumpkin?"
Aiden groaned expressively.
"I can see that," his grandma said. "Do you think maybe you'd be up to some of my turkey noodle soup?"
"Yes, please," Aiden told her. He conscientiously amplified, for the sake of his mother twisting her hands nervously in the chair on the right, "Grandma makes the best turkey noodle soup."