Work Text:
Serge laid on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling. He was sweating profusely, but whether that was due to his mounting fever or the countless pillows and blankets encasing him in a cocoon was unknown.
Jasper had had way too much fun rolling Serge up in all of the latter’s spare blankets. He even took a couple pictures, probably thought he was being sly but Serge was on to him.
Serge was also dying. Very slowly. The only thing keeping him from closing his eyes and accepting his fate was his determination to count every single bump on the ceiling. (Jasper dared him to.)
He was on number three-hundred fifty-four when he heard the door to his bedroom creak open. He tried to turn his head to look at his roommate, but all he could see was the bright yellow cover of Jasper’s favorite pillow.
Grumbling under his breath, Serge tried to wriggle out of his tightly wrapped encasement (how undignified), but to no avail. Next to him, Jasper, now closer and in his range of sight, giggled at his expense. Serge glared at him, trying his best to convey his displeasure.
Grinning, Jasper placed something on the nightstand beside the bed and began unraveling the cocoon. “Feeling better?” he asked once Serge could properly sit up.
The white-haired man shook his head. “My throat itches and I feel like I stuck my head inside a furnace.”
At that, Jasper looked a bit guilty. “Sorry, did the blankets make you feel worse? I’ve never been sick before, so I’m kind of winging it.”
. . .That didn’t make Serge feel any better. However, he’d never gotten sick before either, so what does he know? The only time he had felt under the weather was when he’d pulled three all-nighters in a row. Since then, he made sure to get at least three hours of sleep a day.
“Buuut,” Jasper said, grabbing the object he’d previously placed on Serge’s nightstand. Serge could now see it was a bowl filled with some kind of soup. “I looked up what to do and everyone kept advising chicken soup. So I made some!” He cheerfully handed the bowl over to Serge.
He took it from him warily and placed it in his lap. The bowl was pleasantly warm, and the smell was deceptively nice. Nothing Jasper ever made smelled nice.
Serge glared at the soup with narrow eyes as he stirred the contents, looking for anything suspicious. Carrots, chicken pieces, some noodles, peas, and, huh, bell peppers? Interesting.
Deciding to take a leap of faith, he scooped up some of the soup and put it in his mouth. Immediately he coughed, spitting out some of the soup. His eyes watered and his throat burned; it was as if someone forced a spoonful of cinnamon down his throat, except the cinnamon was on fire and he was on fire and he had jumped into a volcano.
As soon as he’d started coughing, Jasper had jumped into action, taking both the bowl and his spoon from him and placing them back on the nightstand. “Oh my God! Serge, what’s going on? Are you ok??”
Do I look ok?! But, conserving his strength, Serge bit out the word “water”, prompting Jasper to run out of the room and come back half a minute later with a glass filled to the brim with it.
Serge drank the entire thing in one gulp, and while it brought him some relief he still felt a burn in the back of his throat, and his head was still uncomfortably hot. It was at this point that he tuned in to Jasper, who was apologizing profusely. Apparently what Serge had mistaken for bell peppers were actually datil peppers, a type of (very) hot chili pepper.
“Jasper,” he rasped, “you’re doing a better job of killing me than this virus.”
This made Jasper double his apologies, they were practically tripping over each other running out of his mouth. “I’m so so sorry, I swear I didn’t know this would happen!! I even tried it myself and it tasted normal.”
If that tasted normal to Jasper, Serge didn’t ever want to go near something his friend considered spicy. “Please bring me more water. Not just a cup, bring a whole bucket of it.”
Jasper, eager to make up for his accidental murder attempt, nodded and ran out of Serge’s room once more. When he came back, he was holding a literal bucket full of water. Serge didn’t know what he expected, but he supposed this worked.
A couple cups of water later and Serge could speak without hurting his throat. He sighed with relief. “Much better.”
Jasper looked at him guiltily. “If you want, I could go make something else–”
“NO!” he shouted, then added belatedly, “. . .thanks. No thanks, I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”
Serge leaned back to relax against his pillows.
Jasper glanced at the clock, then opened the drawer and took out an ibuprofen bottle. “It’s been six hours, so you can take more medicine.”
Jasper handed him the bottle and he quickly popped two tablets in his mouth and swallowed with a mouthful of water. He closed his eyes and nestled into his pillows, focused only on his breathing. He heard rustling beside him, but Jasper didn’t speak, which he appreciated.
Serge must have dozed off because the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake. His eyes flickered open, and he was surprised to hear not one, but two sets of voices.
“Hello, Serge,” said a warm feminine voice.
Serge squinted. “Gossamer?”
She smiled at him, then answered his unspoken question. “Jasper texted me.” She held up a covered bowl, and added, her words laced with sympathy, “I also brought chicken soup, which I hope helps.”
Serge winced at the mention of “chicken soup”, which made Gossamer laugh and Jasper pout.
“Don’t worry, Serge, this is my own recipe, the one I serve to my kids when they’re sick.” The kids she referred to were the ones she took care of at the Mother Goose Orphanage. Gossamer always cared deeply, and ever since she began working at the orphanage she had treated the children as if they were her own. Serge and Jasper occasionally visited, often bringing treats and toys. To no one’s surprise, Jasper was a favorite among the children.
Grateful for something edible, Serge accepted the bowl and immediately began to eat. Despite it hurting to swallow, the taste of the soup was heavenly. Even the smell itself was opening his nasal passages.
“Thank you Gossamer, this is lovely,” he told her with a smile. Then he side-eyed Jasper. “You, on the other hand, should take cooking classes. A lot of them.”
Jasper’s pout somehow became sulkier. “I’ve tried, but I always end up being kicked out of the class.”
Serge swallowed a mouthful of soup and winced as an unpleasant memory resurfaced. “Oh. Right. The fire.”
Jasper lightly coughed, embarrassed. “ Fires, actually. Don't forget the barbecue. . .and sushi day.”
Serge nodded, a haunted look in his eyes. “Good thing our insurance covered it. . .”
Gossamer stared open-mouthed at them. “. . .I was going to offer to teach you, Jasper, but now I’m not so sure.”
The man in question gasped delightedly. “Wait, really?? Thank you Gossamer, you're the best!” He leapt up and threw his arms around her. Over his shoulder, Gossamer gave Serge a concerned look.
“Just keep a fire extinguisher around. He practices here all the time, but as long as it’s within reach we’ve managed to keep all flames in check.” He shrugged in an everything-will-probably-turn-out-fine sort of way.
Gossamer looked resigned. “. . .I’ll keep my insurance updated, just in case.”
Serge nodded solemnly. “That would be smart.”
Jasper shot Serge a look then held up his phone. “You better stop teasing me or I’ll show Gossamer photos of you cosplaying a burrito a couple hours ago.”
Serge narrowed his eyes. Using his spoon to point accusingly at Jasper, he said, “I knew you were taking pictures. And don’t you dare!”
“Too late!” Jasper chirped, angling his phone towards Gossamer. She honest-to-God cooed at the picture, causing Serge to groan. “Send me those, Jasper!”
“Will do! Should I send this to Thimble and the rest, too?”
“Yes, they’d love them!”
At this point, Serge opted to ignore them and their dastardly plans. He brought another spoonful of soup to his lips and smiled. He was glad he had friends like them.