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fluffyllamas-23 · 13 days

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Oh my god is SO good

What about combining chills and body aches and dizziness for your platonic girls (again bc I LOVE them). Maybe Lottie and Marianne again since i know they’re your faves to write but it would be so good for any of them

ily friend thank you for requesting this! I hope you like it!! updated bingo card below the cut for anyone who wants it! :)

Marianne knocks on Amaya’s door again, hoping she hasn’t forgotten they’re all coming today. Or perhaps gotten cold feet. Just as she’s about to suggest they call her, the door opens.

“Hey, guys,” she greets sheepishly. She’s nervous and ashamed, Marianne can tell. The best thing to do is to ensure she doesn’t feel judged or burdensome, so she forces a smile she’s not entirely feeling.

“Hey, girlie,” she greets. “Ready for us?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She opens the door wide enough for the group to enter, then shuts it again. They drop their cleaning supplies on the living room floor: bleach spray, a broom, garbage bags. Everything they’re going to need to tackle this mess.

“Want some coffee? I made a big pot.”

There are a few takers, but Marianne isn’t among them. Her stomach is a little unsettled and she doesn’t think that adding coffee to the mix would help matters.

“Where do you want to start?” Amaya asks. Lottie considers it for a moment.

“I think we might get more done if we just did different rooms,” Jean suggests.

“Good plan. I call kitchen.” Dean rolls her eyes.

“You just want to raid her snacks. I’ll take the kitchen. Who’s with me? It’s too big a job for one person.” Marianne raises her hand. “Perfect. Lottie and Jean, you’re in the living room. And Amaya, why don’t you take your bedroom?”

It’s a good move, Marianne thinks. Amaya’s already embarrassed about this, so being in control of the most private room in her house might help. She nods. Marianne can’t tell if her demeanor is so subdued because she’s embarrassed or the fault of the depressive episode that’s caused this whole mess in the first place. She hopes it’s the former. She’s been doing so well lately, balanced on her meds and talking with a therapist. During that few months she’d spent at her most depressed, her apartment had fallen into disarray. When she’d finally, finally started feeling better, she was immediately faced with a mess so insurmountable that it threatened to send her right back to that dark place. When she’d confessed this to Lottie, she had immediately organized a group cleaning session and they all jumped at the opportunity to be able to help her. After all, they’d just spent months being powerless to make her feel better, so now that there’s finally something tangible they can do, they’re all eager to do it.

Marianne had been the most executed of all. She loves cleaning, loves organizing. She does puzzles not to see the finished project, but for the satisfaction of assembling each piece in its proper order.

However, when she’d woken up this morning with a headache, sore body, and fever, her excitement had curdled into dread. Still, there’s no turning back, no rescheduling. It had taken a week of convincing just for Amaya to agree to let them help, and if they cancel, she’s not sure that they’d be able to wear her down a second time.

Though she’d never say it, the task is daunting. She can’t express such a sentiment, though, for fear that Amaya will take it as an insult. This isn’t her fault, not by any means, and Marianne doesn’t want to say anything that might make her feel that way.

First, the dishes. Marianne washes while Dean, who refuses to touch wet food even with gloves on, gathers up the dishes from around the apartment to set in the sink. Every time she’s almost finished, Dean comes forward with yet another pile. She’s pretty sure that she and Lottie don’t even own this many dishes. Some of them are so dried that she has to use a steel wool pad to scour them, and some definitely need to soak. While they do so, she moves on to the fridge. This will likely be the worst task of the day, and she’s beginning to regret volunteering to do the kitchen. Her stomach is already a little unsettled. Though she doesn’t want to find out what this might do to the nausea she’s already fighting, she’s about to find out.

Dean sets the trash bag that’s already in the bin by the door so they can start with a clean one. Marianne ensures that she beats her to the fridge so she can just hand Dean tupperwares to empty, but it doesn’t mean she’s not close enough to smell spoiled leftovers. Standing in the fridge isn’t doing any favors for the chills she’s feeling, but she doesn’t notice that she’s shivering until Dean shrugs out of her grey sweatshirt and hands it to her.

“Oh, no, you keep that,” she declines, but Dean doesn’t pull it away.

“I’m getting hot from all the moving around, anyway. Surprised you’re not.” She shrugs. “You’re okay, right? You’ve seemed a little off all day. Quiet.”

“Just a little tired.” Dean nods.

“Well, if you need a break, just let me know. I don’t want to push you and Amaya wouldn’t, either.” To Dean’s surprise, she nods.

“Actually, a break sounds nice.”

“Yeah, sure. Want some water?”

Marianne accepts the glass gratefully and takes a deep breath to steel herself for the rest of the day, resting her head on her palm and allowing her eyes to slip shut. Dean allows her a moment of wallowing before pushing again.

“Something’s wrong.”

‘I told you, I’m just tired—”

“And I’m calling bullshit.” She reaches out for her hand. “Is something going on?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” She sighs. “I’m just not feeling so well.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say anything? You don’t have to help.”

“I know, but I wanted to. To, like, show her we’re all here for her. It’s more symbolic than practical, I guess. I don’t want to not show up when she needs it.”

“Right,” Dean laughs. “I don’t think she’s going to think that deep into it.”

“Well, I am. And I want to stay.”

“Okay. Why don’t you just sit for a while, then? I can handle the kitchen.”

“I’m fine. I can help.” She stands to prove it and promptly undercuts the statement when her head spins and she has to reach out for the table for balance. Dean is at her side to steady her in a flash.

“Woah. Come on. You should lie down on the couch.”

“I can’t—”

“Everyone will understand. You shouldn’t be doing this at your own expense. How do you think Amaya would feel then?”

She hesitates for a long moment. Marianne doesn’t easily take breaks or back down from a challenge, but when Dean leads her to the couch, she hardly protests. Jean frowns when she sees Dean walking her into the living room as if she might fall.

“Everything okay?”

“She just got a little lightheaded. She’s gonna lie down for a bit.”

“Oh no! You do look a little pale.”

“I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

‘Yeah, I doubt that,” Dean argues. “Just rest. You showed up, and that’s all that matters, right? Don’t stress so much about it.”

She nods despite that she’s going to need to be told that same thing twice more before it finally sinks in.

“You still having chills?”

“Chills?” Jean questions. She reaches out to feel Marianne’s forehead and her eyebrows knit together. “You’re pretty warm. Are you sure you don’t need to go home?”

“I want to be here.”

Though she looks dubious, she smiles. “If you say so.” She shakes out a blanket from the basket and lays it over her. “Warmer?” Marianne nods. “Good. Do you need anything?” Mortified to be asking, she fiddles with the edge of the blanket.

“Maybe some Tylenol? I’m pretty sore.”

“Sure. Anything else?” She shakes her head. “Okay. Well, let us know, alright?”

“I will.”

“Well, I know you won’t, but I can hope.” She leaves the room and returns with two pills and a glass of water.

“Don’t tell Amaya, okay? I don’t want her to feel guilty.”

“She’s going to find out at some point, but I won’t tell her unless she asks.” Marianne supposes that’s the best she’s going to get, so she thanks her. “Get some rest, okay?”

With no other choice, she does. When she shuts her eyes for what’s supposed to be just a moment, she ends up falling asleep there on the couch.

#I love this so much #everyone showing up to help Amaya clean her apartment with zero judgment is *chef’s kiss*#we love supportive friends

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fluffyllamas-23 · 17 days

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I pretty much only read on my kindle now but people are sorting their books and not just shoving them in wherever they can fit?

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fluffyllamas-23 · 18 days

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Reblog this with your fave Stardew Valley marriage candidate

#I apologize if i missed anyone #i don't think i did but who knows lol #i didn't include krobus bc i ran out of options

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fluffyllamas-23 · 19 days

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Oh my god I love this SO much 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

What about “malaise and loss of appetite” for whichever neighbor oc of your choosing???

yesssss my ladies!!! loved this prompt and revisiting these OCs! i hope you like it, because it was fun to write!!

Lottie always wakes before Marianne despite that Marianne works early and Lottie sets her own schedule. She’s just always been a morning person. There’s nothing, she thinks, to do at night. No one to talk to. Anything she has to or wants to do, she’d rather do by the light of day.

Marianne is the opposite. Left to her own devices, she’d sleep til 10:30. Maybe later. She sets her alarm for the last possible minute she can wake up every day and then rushes around the house like a madwoman trying to find everything she needs. Every day, she says she’s got to start waking up earlier. It just doesn’t come naturally to her.

That’s why Lottie thinks it’s the least she can do to make breakfast. She’s always liked cooking, but she can’t ever eat more than a few bites at a time due to her gastroparesis, so living with Marianne has been a blessing. She finally has a reason to cook again.

This morning, she’s made two chocolate chips pancakes and two slices of bacon. She’s got it sitting in Marianne’s spot minutes before she’s scheduled to bolt out her door. She always blames Lottie for the fact that she’s late to work every day, citing not being able to resist her cooking as the reason. It makes her feel kind of proud that she’d face a reputation as a tardy mess at work if it meant that she’s able to eat breakfast. Not to mention that she’s pretty sure that if she didn’t cook her meals, Marianne simply wouldn’t eat anything but microwave meals and takeout.

She hears Marianne’s alarm go off and anticipates the frantic sounds of her searching for a clean pair of scrubs. What she hears surprises her—a groan, long and miserable, then nothing. Has she turned off her alarm? It’s rare but not unheard of for her to do that, and it always makes her late enough to get threatened with a strike at work. She can’t let her go through that. Marianne is a mess when work is mad at her. She taps on Marianne’s door before opening it a crack with her eyes closed.

“Are you dressing?”

“Ugh,” Marianne groans. “Two more minutes.”

“Rough night?”

Marianne coughs into her pillow, a sound so wet and deep that it explains everything. She’s not just tired; she’s sick. Now, the fact that she went to bed at 8:30 last night makes a little more sense.

“You feeling okay?” she asks, though she knows the answer. Marianne surprises her by lying.

“Just not a morning person.” That’s strange. Why would she lie about this, not to mention when it’s so obvious?

“You sound sick. You should call in.”

“Nah.” Finally, she sits up, and it’s even worse than Lottie thought. Her face is completely pale, her eyes exhausted like she hasn’t slept at all. “I think it’s just a cold.”

“Come here.” Lottie gestures her over so she can feel her forehead. Another surprise comes when Marianne says no.

“It doesn’t really matter, anyway. We need to clean the manufacturing equipment and it’s all hands on deck,” she explains in a congested, wrecked voice.

“I’m sure they can spare one scientist. You sound awful.”

“A few people are out already. Plus, some of us have to continue running normal operation. Wereally can’t afford for me to have another person down.”

“That’s not your problem. If you’re sick, you shouldn’t go. Aren’t you worried about getting everyone else sick?”

“Normally, yes, but we have to wear chemical respirators. Everyone will be breathing filtered air, and I can’t spread anything around once I’m in my PPE.” She’s getting dressed as they speak, apparently not caring whether Lottie sees. Her scrubs are always cute, colorful and patterned, but today she puts no effort into it. She finds the first pair of pants and the first shirt she sees, clearly not caring whether they match.

“At least take something for it. I’ll grab the flu meds from the bathroom. There’s breakfast on the table.”

By the time she’s gotten the meds, Marianne is filling her travel mug with coffee. “Thanks,” she says when Lottie hands her the blister back, swallowing them back with a swig of too-hot coffee and putting the others in her bag. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait, aren’t you going to eat anything?”

Lottie watches her face turn pale. “Not hungry. I’ll grab something at work if I want it.” That worries her. She’s never known Marianne to turn down a meal, especially pancakes. “Sorry. I appreciate it. Want me to put it away?”

“No, no. You’re already late. I got it.” Marianne nods and thanks her again. “Come home if you feel worse, okay?”

“I will. Thanks.” Lottie wishes she stood a chance at convincing her to stay home, but there’s just no way. Marianne is too stubborn. Not to mention she’s probably right. Her boss is a hardass, so even if she tried to call out, he’d give her shit about it. She probably doesn’t want to have to get a doctor’s note for a simple cold. As Lottie puts breakfast in a Tupperware for later, she tries to force the worry from her mind.

While Lottie is in the middle of proofreading her latest article, the door to their apartment opens. She panics for a second. Is it really 4:00 already?

A glance at her computer reveals that it’s actually only 11:45, so it’s unusual for Marianne to be home already. Maybe she forgot something and is grabbing it on her lunch break. Lottie decides to turn off her computer for a while to greet her and see how she’s doing, but in the doorway, she stops. Marianne is standing in the doorway looking much worse than she had this morning. Not only that, but Amaya is standing next to her.

“What are you doing here?” Lottie asks. “Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

“Marianne called me from work and asked me to drive her home.” Lottie’s heart sinks.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Mariane mumbles. “They sent me home, but it was stupid.”

Whatever it is, she looks awful. Her cheeks are flushed against a very pale face. Her skin is oily from dried sweat despite that she’s shivering even under her cardigan. Lottie ushers them inside quickly. Marianne looks like she’s about to faint, wobbly and weak, so Amaya helps her to the couch. Rather than curling into a ball against the armrest to watch TV like she normally does, she lies flat, resting her feet and head on throw pillows. Lottie reaches under the coffee table and passes her a blanket, which she takes gratefully.

“Need a second one? You’re really shaking.” To her surprise, Marianne nods, so she pulls up a second and watches her fight with the fabric for a few moments. When she’s finally under the blankets and as comfortable as she can be, Lottie reaches to touch her forehead. This time, Marianne has her eyes closed and is too slow to bat her hand away before she can feel the heat there.

“You’re really running a fever. Is that why you were sent home?”

Marianne fiddles with the edge of the blanket like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen. “Something like that.”

“Come on, Mar. If you don’t tell us what happened, we can’t help, and my anxiety is going to make me assume the worst,” Amaya says. At that, she sighs. She has played right into Amaya’s trap: guilt tripping.

“Fine. It really was dumb. We had to wear chemical respirators, and they can be a little hard to breathe in. I got a little weak in the knees is all.”

“Is that a way of saying you collapsed?” Lottie prods. She massages the bridge of her nose.

“Fine. I fainted a little.”

“A little?” Amaya echoes. “Mar, that’s serious. You need to see a doctor.”

“It was just from the mask. I’m fine now.” A rough, deep cough betrays her words. “It’s just a cold.”

“I think you have the flu, sweetie.” Once again, she presses her hand to her forehead and turns up the same result. “It’s okay to just say you’re not feeling well.”

“It was just really humiliating. One of the guys, Mike, had to, like, carry me out so they could take the respirator off. I woke up with my boss fanning my face with her clipboard and my feet propped up on her desk chair. Middle of the office. Everyone saw.”

“Ouch, That is rough.” Amaya squeezes her hand. “But it happens.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d just stayed home today like I told you to.”

“Don’t rub it in. I’m already embarrassed enough. I regret my choices.”

“Well, no one can say you’re not a dedicated employee,” Amaya says. She stands. “I’m going to grab you some water.”

“Gatorade,” Lottie corrects. “In the fridge. She only likes yellow.”

“Horrible choice, but fine. Think you could tolerate some crackers?” She moans, one hand protecting her stomach. “Later, then.”

Lottie follows Amaya into the kitchen. “Thanks for picking her up today. Sorry I couldn’t convince her to stay home.”

“It’s Marianne. Of course you couldn’t.”

By the time they return with the supplies, Marianne’s eyes are shut. She barely manages to stay awake long enough to drink the Gatorade before she falls asleep there. Amaya heads home, stating that she’ll be back later to check in and to call her if she changes her mind about seeing a doctor. They both know how unlikely that is. Lottie decides to finish up her article on her laptop in the living room so she can watch over Marianne while she rests.

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fluffyllamas-23 · 23 days

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When you’re watching a show and an actor sounds like they have a cold in one episode, and then in the next, a different one sounds like they have a cold. Then it makes you think about all the scenarios with actor/actress OCs dealing with a bug making it’s way through the cast and crew and all the platonic caretaking that ensues (and maybe romantic if some of the cast are dating 👀)

#it’s almost 2 am I shouldn’t be awake #but here we are #this is just very cute though #and I just want all the soft things for my OCs

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fluffyllamas-23 · 25 days

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The writers of Criminal Minds really said “spencer Reid is my emotional support whump victim” 😂

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fluffyllamas-23 · 28 days

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Watching “the Lizzie McGuire movie” as an adult is such a trip 😂

#I ate this up as a child #especially the last big musical number #why are there like three different voices singing this song at random parts #I’m wearing a lizzie McGuire themed nail polish so I’m watching this movie for nostalgia 😂

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fluffyllamas-23 · 1 month

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[kicks door open] HELLO! This is out of the blue and weird but I just became aware you’re still active on tumblr and omg hi! I first found your blog in the Voltron era and it was such friendly vibes. I hope you’re doing welllll!! <3

Omg it’s not weird at all!!! This was so sweet thank you for this! I’m doing pretty well, I hope you are too! ❤️

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fluffyllamas-23 · 2 months

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I bought a new switch and ACNH again and all I want to do is play on my island and shirk all responsibilities. What do you mean I have to be a grown up and go to work and school and do assignments?

#I unintentionally have a lot of deer on my island #like it’s only 3/10 but that seemed like so much when I only had 5 villagers and 3 of them were deer #It’s some good nostalgia for early pandemic when it felt like there was still hope and things would get back to normal after 2 weeks

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fluffyllamas-23 · 2 months

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I am about 1/3 of the way through my medical assisting program, and now instead of just one class, we have two classes.

The fully online one is going to be incredibly boring (it’s essentially how to be professional and how to present yourself professionally in a business setting, which I know how to do), but the other one should be so interesting (medical office emergencies).

One of my assignments is to make a flyer or brochure for a medical office on concussions and what to do and man am I ON IT 😂

#writing whump has trained me for this exact moment #I love this program so much and I am so excited to be an MA

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fluffyllamas-23 · 2 months

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Omggggg I love this, thank you so much!!!!! 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

From the bingo card, what about “home early” for whoever of your roommate OCs???

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU MY DEAR FRIEND!!!! i decided to use this prompt for your birthday fic, hope that's okay. You're so kind, smart, and funny. You deserve for this year to treat you right goddamn it. i know it's not off to the best start but I hope your birthday is as wonderful as you are!!

Jean jumps when the door opens, a small part of her absolutely convinced that she’s about to be murdered. Perhaps it’s because she’s recording a particularly ruthless episode of Liar, Liar. She’s chosen this week to talk about Amanda C. Riley, the woman who faked having lymphoma for years to collect hundreds of thousands of dollars from donors on the internet. Not only was she scamming the followers of her blog, but she’d lied to everyone in her life. Her church, her friends: hell, even her own family. Jean’s been in this headspace for two weeks doing this research and it’s been freaking her out a little bit. If someone who loves you can do something like that, what could a stranger do? How can you really trust anyone?

She doesn’t have anything to defend herself from this intruder. Typically, her plan for home security is to let Dean handle it while she cowers, but Dean is out of town doing a show. She thinks about texting one of the others, but Amaya is probably still asleep since it’s not even 10 in the morning yet, Marianne is at work, and Lottie wouldn’t be able to fight off a home invader without hurting herself. She dials 911. Her thumb is hovering over the call button when she sees that she’s missed a text from this morning.

Fell through. Coming home. See you soon.

Oh. It’s just Dean, more than likely. What does she mean by “fell through?” Why is she back so early? She creeps out of the recording room, which is just her walk-in closet with a chair and sound equipment, to go investigate. Dean is on the couch looking haggard and exhausted.

“Hey,” she greets. Dean drags her sluggish gaze toward her, so slow and tired that it sends chill bumps up her arms. “You okay? What are you doing home so early?”

Dean shrugs. “The headliner has the flu, so she’s resting up. Since there’s no show to open anymore, they sent me home.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” Jean says. “I know how much you were looking forward to this.”

“There’ll be other shows I guess.” Jean nods.

“There will. But you seem to be taking this pretty well. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“You’re asking because I’m taking this too well?”

“A little, yeah.” Dean snorts.

“Well, if I’m too well-adjusted and level-headed, I’m very sorry.” Jean doesn’t notice how she’s dodged the question, but this is Dean. If she keeps pushing, she’s going to find the crack in the foundation, and when she does, the entire house will crumble. Judging by how tired she looks, Jean doesn’t think now is the time for that.

“Have you had lunch? I ordered lo mein last night. There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

“No, thanks. I think I might just take a nap. I’m feeling pretty wiped.”

“Sure. Need anything?”

“Nah. I know I interrupted your recording, so go ahead and finish up. I’m sure I’ll be awake by lunch.”

Predictably, Dean is not awake by lunch. She doesn’t nap terribly often, even given all her travel—she swears it’s better to just stay awake and suffer to right her sleep schedule rather than caving and taking a nap—but when she does, they’re long naps. Like, over three hours long. They toe the line between napping and just a straight up poor night’s sleep.

However, as much as Jean wants to let her sleep, when Dean isn’t up by dinner, she starts to feel worried. Sure, she’d looked exhausted, but she needs to eat or she’s going to wake up feeling even worse. Needs to drink something, too. Jean texts her.

Hey, you awake? What do you want for din?

Ten minutes passing without a response is enough to let her know that ever-phone-absorbed Dean is still sleeping. It gives her no choice but to knock.

The other thing about Dean’s sleep schedule is that she has to wake up naturally. Or else.

She has a natural ability to wake ten minutes before an alarm. Probably because she wakes up every 45 minutes, anyway. On the rare occasion that she wakes to the sound of an alarm, her entire day is ruined and so is yours, if you have to talk to her about anything at all. She’s cranky, moody, and unpredictable. Jean knows that she’s poking the bear, but she can’t just let her miss two meals, can she?

“Dean,” she calls, rapping softly at the door, “hey. I’m ordering dinner.”

“Ngh,” is the only reply, a warning. Do not continue to press. Abandon hope, ye who enter here. “Go’way.”

“You’ve got to be hungry. You haven’t eaten all day. You’ve been napping for like seven hours; don’t you think it’s time to get up?”

“Not yet.”

Something in her voice, there, stops her. Normally, she’d say, “screw it; I tried; best of luck to you.” But there’s an undertone to her snappish retort that gives her pause.

“Are you okay?” she calls. When she gets no answer, she steels herself. “I’m coming in. Be dressed, or else.”

Dean says nothing, so she calls that an invitation. When she opens the door, Dean is asleep under not only her regular blankets, but the ones from the living room that she’d apparently stolen when Jean was still recording. Immediately, that sets off alarm bells.

“Are you really that cold?” she asks. Dean groans.

“Leave me alone,” she whines. Her voice is strained, shot like it is after a really, really good tour, but this had not been that.

“You said the header had the flu. Did you, perhaps, spend any time with her?”

“We all went to dinner. And a party. We might’ve made out a little.”

“Dean, what the hell,” she scolds, but it comes out as a giggle. When she finally manages to get a good look at her roommate, she can’t help but find what she sees alarming. She’s shivering and sweating, pale but flushed. All at once. “Oh, my God. You have the flu, you dummy.”

“S’that why I feel like I got hit by a truck?”

“You really didn’t put these things together? That you kissed someone while they were sick and now you feel like garbage?”

“In my defense, she wasn’t sick when we fooled around.”

“You fooled around? You said you made out.”

“Details,” she scoffs. “Splitting hairs.”

“We’re not done talking about this,” she promises, “but I’ll give you a break because you look awful. I’m going to find the thermometer and some meds. Sit tight and don’t go back to sleep.”

To her credit, Dean does appear to attempt to follow instructions, forcing herself to sit up against the headboard, but it barely works, as she’s barely awake when she returns to her room a few minutes later. Jean hands her the thermometer while she works on getting the flu meds out of their blister pack, a task for which she wishes she’d brought scissors. In fact, she’s resorted to gnawing on the plastic when the thermometer beeps.

“103.1.” She grimaces. “I hope you two had a good time doing whatever.”

“That’s reductive. She’s actually a lovely person.”

“And is her number in your phone?” The lack of an answer is an answer. “Reductive, my butt. Here.”

Fortunately, Dean is able to puncture the paper on the back of the pills with the tip of her long, sharp acrylic. “Did you bite this? Why is it damp?”

“Just take them. You’ll feel better.” Desperate for that to be a reality, Dean obeys. “Think you could eat something? I don’t think you’re supposed to take those on an empty stomach.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“But if the other option were an ulcer…”

“Toast,” she finally agrees. “Dry. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She takes the packaging for the pills and drops it in Dean’s garbage on the way out the door.

When she returns, Dean is asleep again. She has to nudge her by the shoulder to rouse her. From this close, she can feel heat radiating off her. Jean presses her palm to Dean’s forehead uselessly and winces. It’s not the first time Dean’s gotten sick on the road, but it’s definitely the worst. She’s glad that they sent her home, at least. It would have been awful to have to perform like this, and Jean knows that she’d have tried her hardest.

“Hey, Toast, for you. Wakey, wakey.” Dean doesn’t even open her eyes, just reaches out for the toast, manages about half of the slice, then sets it back on the plate.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. What do you need?”

“To be put out of my misery?”

“I was thinking more like soup, blankets, popsicles. Stuff I can do for you without committing a felony.” When Dean just coughs, she sighs. “A bath might help you feel a little less achy.”

“Not worth it. The bathtub is like eight miles from here.”

“It’s definitely less than 15 feet, but point taken. Maybe later.” She hesitates. Leaving her alone in this state doesn’t feel right, but she doesn’t want to keep her from resting, either. “Your fever is a little high for my liking. Do you need anything?”

“Tell me about the podcast episode. I want spoilers.”

“Really? I figured you’d want to go back to sleep.”

“I do. But I’m so used to falling asleep to your podcast that I think your voice would lull me to sleep.”

She forgets sometimes that Dean had been a fan of the podcast before they’d started living together. The two of them had only met because Dean asked her to plug her set that was being released on Apple Music. “I’m reaching out to my favorite podcasts first, then the ones I think I have a chance with,” she’d said in the email. “I know you’re busy and way too big for this, but a girl can dream, right?”

When Jean had found out that she and Dean lived in the same town, she’d decided to come to her show and introduce herself. They’d had a drink, which turned into three and a shared plate of fried pickles. That was four years ago. It had been too perfect, the way they’d hit it off. Jean thinks of Dean as a platonic soulmate. They just fit together like puzzle pieces. To the same metaphor, Jean had always found it difficult to find people with whom she fit in. Everyone was always too much and overlapped essential parts of her quiet personality, or they complained about how she didn’t complete them. There was never any winning. Not until she met Dean Miller. Since then, she’s felt like she’s won every day. Even when they’re driving each other crazy, which is often. There’s no place else she’d rather be than here in this room, and if that meant sitting here and telling her a horrible, twisted bedtime story, then so be it.

“Sure. It starts with Amanda C. Riley. She’s young, blonde, and has her whole life ahead of her. She, her husband, and their two sons were living together in California in 2012 when she received a horrible diagnosis: Hodgkin's lymphoma. Today, Amanda is in prison, serving five years and sporting a $100,000 fine. Believe it or not, these two things are related, and you’re never going to guess how.”

Dean is asleep by the time she gets past her intro. She can’t lie, that hurts a little, but she keeps in mind that it’s not personal. A sick roommate isn’t a fair test screening, but she can’t help but wonder if it means the episode is going to be too boring. Maybe she should rewrite the beginning to make it hookier, or scrap it altogether and write something better.

“You stopped.”

“Oh,” Jean fumbles, “yeah, sorry. I thought you were asleep.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m asleep. Finish the story?”

“Anything for you,” she says, smiling. She launches back in until she hears Dean snoring.

#🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺#they’re so cute #I love platonic caretaking so much #and you do it so well #thank you again omg this was wonderful!!

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