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ajremixFirst I couldn't stop it, then I couldn't end it.
Title: Sympathy to a Sick Man
Fandom: DCU
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1117
Characters: Flash Rogues
Summary: Prompt: someone gets sick with comics!Rogues. Title from a Mark Twain quote.
Rogues, by unanimous decision, had long since voted winters to be the absolute worst. Not even Cold could argue much. It wasn't because of the low temperatures. It wasn't even because the snow or occasional sleet. It was because, every year without fail, someone would come down with the flu. And in short order it would spread to every. Damn. One of them.
Flu shots never stopped it. If someone so much as sneezed and the rest bolted to their most secret, most isolated personal hideouts, they still got sick. One year Mardon had attempted to subvert the curse- as Trickster put it and after four years in a row no one refuted it -by skipping out of state earlier and he still managed to get sick the same week as everyone else.
By the fifth year Cold decided since they were all going to be ill and miserable no matter what they tried, they may as well just deal with it. Which was why the Shittiest Slumber Party Week began. Trickster coined it. It didn't catch on. At least not out loud. At the first sign of sickness everyone piled into their most comfortable safehouse- meaning the one with enough beds for everyone and more than one bathroom -had it stocked to bursting with supplies and hunkered down until all the dizziness and vomiting passed. Whoever got sick first had to do the stocking and God help them if they tried to be stingy as it also meant they were the ones that had to go and restock whatever ran out. If they were too sick to move than they were the ones that had to ask Piper to drop stuff off for them.
And he made them beg.
This year it was Digger. Which was something of a relief as he was an absolute baby when he got sick and also would rather die (again) before groveling to Piper. So they cleared the biggest room, staked out their personal space- fights broke out for the spots closest to the bathrooms as they did every year -and laid out their mattresses and individual trash cans. The general things like extra tissue paper, medicine, easy-to-eat foods and cases of bottled water sat in the middle of the group as did the remotes for the entertainment system.
Everyone's spots were tailored to make the entire experience as less horrendous as possible. Mardon practically disappeared into a mountain of pillows, the only sign of life from him was a hand reaching out occasionally to grab water or a book. Cold had an electric fan and a cooler filled with ice packs. Sam generally passed out until the sickness ran its course through him, getting up only to use the bathroom and was the envy of everyone who had to deal with aches and nausea. Mick had a comforter and an electric blanket and a back-up electric blanket and a generator in case the power went out. No one wanted a repeat of what happened last year. Trickster had a laptop, various portable gaming devices, headphones, a bag stuffed with movies and games and another bag of stuffed animals which Cold made sure to check were just stuffed animals and he hadn't brought a gimmick by accident. No one really wanted a repeat of last year.
"Cold. Give ya a grand to end my life."
"Shut up, Digger." The snapped remark came out more petulant. The cooler hadn't reached dangerously low levels of cold packs yet, but it was getting there. Cold really didn't want to have to get up to make more ice. "Mick done puking yet?"
A new round of distant retching answered the question. That poor bastard seemed to have gotten it extra hard that year, every moment not spent cocooned in his blankets and groaning at every move he made, Mick was in the bathroom vomiting. By the second day Cold had pushed the water closer to Mick's spot. Really they all just had to last one more day and Sam would be awake, groggy and weak but no longer sick. His seemingly clockwork ability to get over the flu in five days also drew envious grumbling but they didn't hold it against him too much. Not when Sam was willing to help the others recover afterward.
"Can't believe we got sick now." Trickster didn't even pretend he's not whining, arm over his eyes. It was always easy to tell when he was sick as his entire face would go bright red and he secretly found it embarrassing. Curse his fair, northern Italian genes! "They're releasing the last wave of new toys before Christmas this weekend! How am I suppose to steal them when I can't even sit up for more than three minutes at a time? I'm going to be using last year's models for my gimmicks, how humiliating."
"Since when did you care?" Cold growled automatically then nearly coughed up a lung when it irritated his throat. He popped another lozenge and was a little more careful when he said, "You use slinkies and rubber chickens. Said classics never go out of style."
"Doesn't mean I don't keep up with the times. There's a propeller powered RC Batman! Do you know what I was planning on doing with that?"
"Using it to get me food?" Mardon's pillows parted just enough for him to peek out. That was the first thing he'd said all day. "'M hungry."
"Then feed yourself, lazy blighter."
"Can't. Nothing works."
Digger feebly groped for a packet of instant oatmeal, never minding the fact Mardon would still need to get hot water for it, and tossed it in Mardon's direction. It landed in Mick's mostly-full trashcan. "...I tried."
Mardon's face screwed up before his head flopped back in his pillows. "'M not hungry anymore."
Cold sighed and fished out one of his frozen fruit pops. He couldn't really see Mardon in all the pillows so just tried to aim at the sunken in area. It landed with a plop and Mardon said flatly, "Ow."
Mick finally came out of the bathroom, looking worse than all of them combined. He paused long enough to pop a few pills, down some cold and flu syrup and crawled into his cavern of blankets, making a pitiful noise before the mound settled. The Rogues that were capable of exchanging glances did so. Digger reached off to the side of his mattress- that bastard stole the last banana! -and placed the fruit close to where he guessed Mick's head was.
After a moment, Trickster spoke up again. "Next year this happens, we should do a heist. If we're lucky, maybe one of us'll get Flasher sick."
Title: Sympathy to a Sick Man
Fandom: DCU
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1117
Characters: Flash Rogues
Summary: Prompt: someone gets sick with comics!Rogues. Title from a Mark Twain quote.
Rogues, by unanimous decision, had long since voted winters to be the absolute worst. Not even Cold could argue much. It wasn't because of the low temperatures. It wasn't even because the snow or occasional sleet. It was because, every year without fail, someone would come down with the flu. And in short order it would spread to every. Damn. One of them.
Flu shots never stopped it. If someone so much as sneezed and the rest bolted to their most secret, most isolated personal hideouts, they still got sick. One year Mardon had attempted to subvert the curse- as Trickster put it and after four years in a row no one refuted it -by skipping out of state earlier and he still managed to get sick the same week as everyone else.
By the fifth year Cold decided since they were all going to be ill and miserable no matter what they tried, they may as well just deal with it. Which was why the Shittiest Slumber Party Week began. Trickster coined it. It didn't catch on. At least not out loud. At the first sign of sickness everyone piled into their most comfortable safehouse- meaning the one with enough beds for everyone and more than one bathroom -had it stocked to bursting with supplies and hunkered down until all the dizziness and vomiting passed. Whoever got sick first had to do the stocking and God help them if they tried to be stingy as it also meant they were the ones that had to go and restock whatever ran out. If they were too sick to move than they were the ones that had to ask Piper to drop stuff off for them.
And he made them beg.
This year it was Digger. Which was something of a relief as he was an absolute baby when he got sick and also would rather die (again) before groveling to Piper. So they cleared the biggest room, staked out their personal space- fights broke out for the spots closest to the bathrooms as they did every year -and laid out their mattresses and individual trash cans. The general things like extra tissue paper, medicine, easy-to-eat foods and cases of bottled water sat in the middle of the group as did the remotes for the entertainment system.
Everyone's spots were tailored to make the entire experience as less horrendous as possible. Mardon practically disappeared into a mountain of pillows, the only sign of life from him was a hand reaching out occasionally to grab water or a book. Cold had an electric fan and a cooler filled with ice packs. Sam generally passed out until the sickness ran its course through him, getting up only to use the bathroom and was the envy of everyone who had to deal with aches and nausea. Mick had a comforter and an electric blanket and a back-up electric blanket and a generator in case the power went out. No one wanted a repeat of what happened last year. Trickster had a laptop, various portable gaming devices, headphones, a bag stuffed with movies and games and another bag of stuffed animals which Cold made sure to check were just stuffed animals and he hadn't brought a gimmick by accident. No one really wanted a repeat of last year.
"Cold. Give ya a grand to end my life."
"Shut up, Digger." The snapped remark came out more petulant. The cooler hadn't reached dangerously low levels of cold packs yet, but it was getting there. Cold really didn't want to have to get up to make more ice. "Mick done puking yet?"
A new round of distant retching answered the question. That poor bastard seemed to have gotten it extra hard that year, every moment not spent cocooned in his blankets and groaning at every move he made, Mick was in the bathroom vomiting. By the second day Cold had pushed the water closer to Mick's spot. Really they all just had to last one more day and Sam would be awake, groggy and weak but no longer sick. His seemingly clockwork ability to get over the flu in five days also drew envious grumbling but they didn't hold it against him too much. Not when Sam was willing to help the others recover afterward.
"Can't believe we got sick now." Trickster didn't even pretend he's not whining, arm over his eyes. It was always easy to tell when he was sick as his entire face would go bright red and he secretly found it embarrassing. Curse his fair, northern Italian genes! "They're releasing the last wave of new toys before Christmas this weekend! How am I suppose to steal them when I can't even sit up for more than three minutes at a time? I'm going to be using last year's models for my gimmicks, how humiliating."
"Since when did you care?" Cold growled automatically then nearly coughed up a lung when it irritated his throat. He popped another lozenge and was a little more careful when he said, "You use slinkies and rubber chickens. Said classics never go out of style."
"Doesn't mean I don't keep up with the times. There's a propeller powered RC Batman! Do you know what I was planning on doing with that?"
"Using it to get me food?" Mardon's pillows parted just enough for him to peek out. That was the first thing he'd said all day. "'M hungry."
"Then feed yourself, lazy blighter."
"Can't. Nothing works."
Digger feebly groped for a packet of instant oatmeal, never minding the fact Mardon would still need to get hot water for it, and tossed it in Mardon's direction. It landed in Mick's mostly-full trashcan. "...I tried."
Mardon's face screwed up before his head flopped back in his pillows. "'M not hungry anymore."
Cold sighed and fished out one of his frozen fruit pops. He couldn't really see Mardon in all the pillows so just tried to aim at the sunken in area. It landed with a plop and Mardon said flatly, "Ow."
Mick finally came out of the bathroom, looking worse than all of them combined. He paused long enough to pop a few pills, down some cold and flu syrup and crawled into his cavern of blankets, making a pitiful noise before the mound settled. The Rogues that were capable of exchanging glances did so. Digger reached off to the side of his mattress- that bastard stole the last banana! -and placed the fruit close to where he guessed Mick's head was.
After a moment, Trickster spoke up again. "Next year this happens, we should do a heist. If we're lucky, maybe one of us'll get Flasher sick."
