lucetilogs | i'm half-awake in paisley print -- i can see the world clearly but i have to squint

i'm half-awake in paisley print -- i can see the world clearly but i have to squint

Who: [Bad username or site: slaying title= @ livejournal.com], [Bad username or site: hippocraticly title= @ livejournal.com] & [Bad username or site: lists_to_port title= @ livejournal.com]
What: Somehow, Jack has talked his way into helping look after the under-the-weather Doctor McCoy
When: Backdated to Wednesday morning
Where: House Seven
Summary: A lot of awkward silences are predicted.
Rating: PG13? Perhaps higher for implications or language. We'll see.

It was mid-morning on a Wednesday and Buffy was still in her pajamas. After her post-waking-up shower, she decided to slip right back into something comfy and casual. It made the day seem that much more inviting. And her evening had gone latter than expected, tending to the delirium-tinged sickness of Doctor McCoy. She probably doesn't even remember inviting Jack Sparrow over to "help" -- which is all well and good, because if she remembered she would probably rescind the invitation.

She began her day in the kitchen. Coffee had to be made -- for her. Bones was getting lemon in hot water or maybe some NeoCitran knock-off. Plus orange slices, because she has made it her own personal mission to get as much vitamin C into the doctor as she can manage. She took great satisfaction in crisply slicing the fruit, releasing deliciously orangeish smells into the air.

Once the coffee was successfully brewed, Buffy took a tray of everything into the lounge. She gently attempted to rouse Bones from his stupor on the couch.

(ooc; posting order -- bones, jack, buffy? sound good?)

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Opting to sleep on the couch had seemed like the chivalrous thing to do for Emony Dax when he had been capable of lucid thought since Saturday evening, but now he was beginning to regret this decision for two reasons.

The first was being routinely jostled awake by the Slayer, whether it was for her meals she dutifully brought for him, or from hearing her return from work or her patrol. And the second -- probably the most irritating one, actually -- was the intense inflammation in his neck, caused from sleeping awkwardly on the couch.

"'orning," He offers grumpily, rubbing the back of his neck and ignoring the aroma of coffee and oranges slices stinging his nostrils.

Jack Sparrow had awakened surprisingly early that morning, considering the amount of rum he'd taken in the night before.

Standing under a steady hard spray of hot shower water had helped wake him up somewhat. It was even better after he'd taken his clothes off.

He'd stood dripping on the bathmat for quite a while, staring at the pile of sopping clothing. Bones didn't need a pirate today. Bones needed a trimmed-up Best Mate who wasn't so much a reminder of death-by-drowning.

So it was an almost completely different man who emerged from Building 4 to make his way to House 7 that morning with a bag full of "medicine." Blue jeans. Sweater. Warm coat. Scarf Luna had knitted him, of course---wouldn't do to look cold.

And Buffy and McCoy might have wondered at his sudden appearance in their living room, considering he obviously did not use the front door.

"Morning, Bonesy! Buffy!"

Buffy grabbed her mug of coffee and was in the process of choosing a fat, succulent orange slice when the alarming presence of a third person in the room surprises her. She expertly balanced her beverage as she twisted to look--wide eyed--at the pirate. Oh, for f--Jack. She slowly reclaimed the realization that she had extended a metaphorical olive branch the night before.

She laughed--awkwardly, guiltily, uncomfortably--and looked from Jack to Bones with a slight wince. "Right, doc...I kinda-maybe-sorta told Jack he could come and be helpful. Y'know, provided he actually does help." This last phrase is spoken like a challenge to the pirate.

McCoy wanted to believe that he was just hearing the bastard at first... until he noticed Buffy was looking in the general vicinity of where he heard the voice, anyway. Managing to prop himself up with some effort, one arm slung over the back of the furniture to steady himself, his eyes narrow at the pirate who waltzed in from God knows where. As unpleasant as it was to see him after what happened, he had at least finally ditched the primitive pirate look.

"Can no-one.. in this damn place.. use the front door?" He croaked the grievance angrily, his irritation spiking with each word. He growled at Jack before looking back at Buffy with an expression that seemed to say Why, Oh God why?

In response Jack sashayed directly to Bones's side and swept down to his knees beside the couch, a picture of attentive physician at the bedside of a sick man.

"Window wasn't battened down, so I thought I'd chance it. Look at you, McCoy--strong enough to wrestle the Leviathan himself. And Buffy hinted you were all feeble-like."

"Hey, I did not use the word feeble." Did she? She could not remember. But she would stick to her guns regardless.

Buffy resolved herself to staunchly sip her coffee and not be bothered by any of this, until..."Which window did you come in?"

McCoy shot a glare at Buffy and harrumphed unhappily. And the riddle of which window he used would go unanswered (it couldn't have been his room, otherwise the man would not be walking) because at that moment, McCoy had decided to bring back his hand before rapidly sinking his fist into the middle of his nose.

Jack wasn't unprepared for an attack of that kind, so he was able to somewhat swerve out of the way of the oncoming fist. Still, Bones connected.

"OUCH! See, Buffy? Quite a powerful lad still." Could he remember the things Jack had said to goad him into waking up back at the lakeside? Hopefully not.

"What window.....what window.....OH. Your window, lass. Erm...be right back." And the pirate got up and headed into the kitchen for something to staunch the blood.

Buffy watched as her everything crashed down around her. Peace, her Wednesday morning, reality. She rubbed her temple and just...no, she shook her head.

"Why with the Rocky act and--Jack?" Oh yes, she was yelling after him. "Didn't we have a conversation about my window, last night?"

It was difficult to say if McCoy remembered the comment about her underwear drawer when he was unconscious next to the lake, but he was not giving anything away as he slumped back onto the couch and faced the cushions sulkily.

"We did? I don't recall, lass." This Jack called out from the kitchen. He soon returned to them both with a bloodstained tea towel clutched to his nose. "I shut it tightly behind me, you'll be glad to know."

Yeah, we did. And you talked about how you wouldn't use the window if I didn't want you do and I still don't want you to."

Buffy was now standing somewhere approximately in the middle between Jack and Bones. She wanted to make a comment about his blood getting all over their tea towel but--God, was it really worth it? Clearly this was just one big disaster. So--like a strange kind of surrender, she pointed the orange slices out to Bones.

"Hey. Vitamin C, now."

As Buffy took the role of mediator, McCoy lifted his head and peered over the head rest of the couch at the two of them, trying to make out what the conversation between pirate and slayer actually meant. Instead, he looked aghast at the towel Jack was slowly defiling.

"Windows are for letting air in, not damn annoying bastards!" McCoy snapped at the man, rolling his eyes as she Buffy tried to direct his attention to the orange slices instead.

"Sorry, Buffy, force of habit, I guess. Any way I can make it up to you?" As he offered to make amends, the pirate peered around Buffy at McCoy. "Oi! Eat your oranges, now, there's a chap."

She took a heavy seat on the chair. Jack jumping on the command bandwagon would not help her cause, she predicted. She slurped her coffee like it was her only respite.

"Force of habit?" She echoed, miserably--before mouthing a quick God, I'm sorry to Bones.

"Mmmph."

It must have been a good sign that McCoy had so much energy to act so childishly right now, as he popped the orange slices into his mouth in rapid succession and chewed on them thoughtfully, eyes narrowed to slits as he willed the persisting nausea to give him a break.

Better to ignore Buffy's question or risk more bloodletting. House 7: a dangerous place. Jack returned to Bones's side, sidling past Buffy.

"I've brought you some special things what will help you mend, Bones."

At least Bones was eating the orange slices--perhaps he would notice the hot lemon water, too. But she wouldn't push her luck and it wouldn't do to have a clash of wills in front of Jack Sparrow.

"Your special things better not include booze, Jack."

McCoy lifted his brow and he was tempted to throw another punch at his face with him being in such close vicinity, but concentrated on the orange slices and keeping them down instead. He swallowed most of them before he decided to humour the other man.

"I severely doubt that somehow," He murmured thickly, although the prospect of alcohol being smuggled into the house was definitely appealing. McCoy had been gagging for a drink after what happened, but he knew Buffy would not approve; especially with the cup of hot lemon water currently being shunned.

"Got a cure in there for the common cold? Not damn likely."

Jack moved so that he could block Buffy's line of sight, reaching surreptitiously into his coat to pull out a familiar silver flask. He poured some of its contents into the hot water.

"Dunno, mate--might surprise you, eh?"

Buffy was far too distracted by her own misery to really figure out what was going on. She blustered through the hot coffee in a few gulps, then spun the dregs in her mug.

Maybe she could just...leave. But then more punches might fly.

"... Yeah, right." He muttered sceptically, keeping his expression impassive as he watched him add some more punch to the lemon. As he reached for the cup and lifted it, he gave it an experimental sniff before taking a good, long sip.

"Better already, eh? Now then....I'll show you what I've brought!" The pirate picked up the canvas duffle bag he'd carried in, unzipping it with a flourish.

Now, she looked up--curious.

"Move! Let me see."

As Buffy showed interest, McCoy was tempted to bury himself under the blankets again with his steaming spiked drink.

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