The Sniffles: Runaway Tales
Title: The Sniffles
Author: sophie_03
Flavour/Prompts: Vanilla #2 The Sniffles
Extras/Toppings: none
Rating: G/PG
Summary: he's had enough of colds and being ill; whenever he doesn't need one it seems he gets another.
He couldn’t believe it. He was getting a cold again. He’d only just got over the last one, he didn’t need another. He tried to clear his throat but it still ached, no matter what he did. And it was that horrible kind of sore, the one that was just there and wouldn’t go away. He would have to stock up on the lemsip and strepsils - again. He didn’t need this right now. He had this script to work on.
The weather didn’t help his mood; it was still pouring down out there and it didn’t look like it was going to be stopping anytime in the near future. It looked like it could go on forever. And that was the way he felt at that moment, as if this rain and cold could just never end.
He held his pen in his hands, absentmindedly turning it around in his hands as he sat there, not noticing that his hand was gradually becoming covered in ink.
He couldn’t see anymore where he was going with this. It had nothing in it; with project number one now in transit as it were he had turned his attention back to this, but something about it just didn’t seem right anymore.
His laptop was whirring away next to him, just in sight, waiting for him to return to it, and the rest of his small desk he noticed was a mess. It always was. There were bits of scrap paper everywhere, some important, some not - he didn’t know the difference anymore. There was a pile of unopened envelopes and pen lids scattered among the debris. His stack of empty, used mugs was becoming impressive too, they towered next to him, waiting to fall if he even dared touched them. So he left them there. Or he would leave them until he needed a mug and then he might dare. Only then. It was only partly distracting. He was used to it now after all. The mess just was. It was a part of his working and living environment, even if it wasn’t particularly good for working in.
He sniffed loudly, hating that already his nose was beginning to stream and his throat drying up. Not what he needed.
His ringing phone distracted him from his self inflicted misery and he answered it, his throat burning as he spoke, barely letting the person on the other end say anything, he complained, ‘I’m ill again.’
Author: sophie_03
Flavour/Prompts: Vanilla #2 The Sniffles
Extras/Toppings: none
Rating: G/PG
Summary: he's had enough of colds and being ill; whenever he doesn't need one it seems he gets another.
He couldn’t believe it. He was getting a cold again. He’d only just got over the last one, he didn’t need another. He tried to clear his throat but it still ached, no matter what he did. And it was that horrible kind of sore, the one that was just there and wouldn’t go away. He would have to stock up on the lemsip and strepsils - again. He didn’t need this right now. He had this script to work on.
The weather didn’t help his mood; it was still pouring down out there and it didn’t look like it was going to be stopping anytime in the near future. It looked like it could go on forever. And that was the way he felt at that moment, as if this rain and cold could just never end.
He held his pen in his hands, absentmindedly turning it around in his hands as he sat there, not noticing that his hand was gradually becoming covered in ink.
He couldn’t see anymore where he was going with this. It had nothing in it; with project number one now in transit as it were he had turned his attention back to this, but something about it just didn’t seem right anymore.
His laptop was whirring away next to him, just in sight, waiting for him to return to it, and the rest of his small desk he noticed was a mess. It always was. There were bits of scrap paper everywhere, some important, some not - he didn’t know the difference anymore. There was a pile of unopened envelopes and pen lids scattered among the debris. His stack of empty, used mugs was becoming impressive too, they towered next to him, waiting to fall if he even dared touched them. So he left them there. Or he would leave them until he needed a mug and then he might dare. Only then. It was only partly distracting. He was used to it now after all. The mess just was. It was a part of his working and living environment, even if it wasn’t particularly good for working in.
He sniffed loudly, hating that already his nose was beginning to stream and his throat drying up. Not what he needed.
His ringing phone distracted him from his self inflicted misery and he answered it, his throat burning as he spoke, barely letting the person on the other end say anything, he complained, ‘I’m ill again.’