lucetilogs | 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?)

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.

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