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capeandcowllogs2010-05-29 12:31 am
lassiface.livejournal.com) wrote in capeandcowllogs2010-05-29 12:31 am
PLEASE HELP ME DOCTOR DICK MY FEVER'S RISING
WHO: LASSITER, SHAWN, A FRIDGE
WHERE: SHAWN'S BARHOME
WHEN: FRIDAY/SATURDAY WHENEVER
WARNINGS: NONE, IT'S NOT EVEN SCHMOOPY, MAYBE VOMIT WARNING
SUMMARY: BECK'S GONE FOR TWO WEEKS, NEED AN EXCUSE FOR SHAWN TO BE MISSING, WE TURN TO OUR OLD FRIEND H1N1. ALSO, SHAWN'S FRIDGE IS GROSS.
FORMAT: FICLOG, NOT IN ALL CAPS
Shawn was sick. He swore on everything from Gaster's stinky kitty butt to the Dole pineapple plantation that it was the swine flu—oh wait excuse him, H1N1 flu—but Lassiter ignored his declarations of impending death. Even if it was H1N1, it was still just a flu, and just because manufacturers of flu vaccinations tried to make it sound like the apocalyptic disease Earth has been waiting for, Lassiter knew it was still just a flu.
Shawn was in a bad state, nonetheless. Feverish, sweaty, clammy, snot and tissue everywhere. All-in-all, it was sad and pretty gross. Leave it to Shawn to have a suitable proper job finally and to become immediately sick as soon as he was to start. But Lassiter was a kind, if begrudging, significant other and he stopped off at Shawn's barhome to deliver him various things he may need. Medicine, bottles of water, various foodstuffs that might be edible in his current state. He dropped the bag of stuff on the bar's counter before wandering up the stairs to see if he was awake.
He barely looked like he was, but when the door creaked open, Shawn slowly turned to look at it anyway. He was under three layers of blankets and one cat on his chest despite the warmth of the season. Any vague thoughts that Shawn might be faking completely left at seeing his miserable face. He could barely crack out the joke, “What, no nurse outfit? Worst boyfriend ever...”
“It smells in here,” he said in way of a reply, marching straight up to him and immediately putting a hand to his forehead.
“I haven't left the bed in two days,” he muttered, eyes closing under the touch. “Are you staying?”
Lassiter tutted, “You're hot, I'll give you something,” pause, “before I go. I'm only here on my lunch break.” Shawn's eyes grew wide and pitiful. “I'll come back after work, though, if just to check on you. You might as well stay here since you look settled. I brought medicine and food for you. I'll put the food in the fridge, all right? It's little fruit package things. In tiny plastic cups.” He tried to awkwardly illustrate it with his hands since Shawn was looking at him dumbly. But that might have just been the fever, surely Shawn knew about fruit cups. “All right? I'll be back.”
He patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave, stomping back down the stairs and pulling out the medicine and water to the counter to take upstairs, and wandering to the fridge to put away the fruit. And that was when he made his first mistake: opening that fridge door.
It was horrible, it was awful, it was a pit, an absolute cesspool. An ice cream sandwich laid in a heap at the foot of it, a smear of melted, sticky ice cream down the vegetable crispers. There were boxes of Chinese and pizza so old there was mold on the outside. There looked like leftover spaghetti just plopped on the surface like he had lost the plate somewhere between the kitchen and the fridge.
And there was a shoe. An old, ratty sneaker. Right there. By the spaghetti.
That was only a few of the things, untold piles of stuff was on every surface and in every cranny of the refrigerator.
Lassiter wasn't ashamed to admit, he screamed. Upstairs Shawn heard it, and cocked his head in confusion. Then jumped hard enough when he heard a gunshot to practically throw Gaster across the bed. “Lassiii? Terrrr?” he tried to call out hoarsely, wondering if Lassiter had decided suicide would be better than taking care of a sick and whining Shawn Spencer. Maybe Shawn shouldn't have called him 15 times in the past 3 and a half hours.
To his relief, he heard footsteps running up his stairs and Lassiter barged in, holstering his gun before rushing to the bed and yanking on Shawn's arm. “We're leaving. Your fridge. Something was in it, something not of this world,” he babbled as he pulled Shawn around, getting pants and a shirt on him, “borne from mold and tennis shoe, why the hell do you have a tennis shoe in your fridge, you're going to my place, you're not safe with that in here.” He picked up a startled and yowling Gaster and turned to face Shawn with the professional stoicism of a veteran police officer, “After work I'm going to burn your fridge.”
Shawn looked aghast as he clung to Lassiter's arm to keep from falling over, all the rushing and panic making him dizzy and nauseous. “I worked months to get it that way! It's perfect! Lassi, do you not understand the art behind recreating 'Apocalypse Now' in a refrigerated setting! I was going to submit photos to an online cont—“
He was cut short by the sudden flurry of vomit escaping him. Lassiter stopped with a disgusted groan, but a few seconds later just pulled him in to a brace and ushered him quickly out of the barhome, muttering, “Whatever that thing was will eat the floor clean.”
END?!
WHERE: SHAWN'S BARHOME
WHEN: FRIDAY/SATURDAY WHENEVER
WARNINGS: NONE, IT'S NOT EVEN SCHMOOPY, MAYBE VOMIT WARNING
SUMMARY: BECK'S GONE FOR TWO WEEKS, NEED AN EXCUSE FOR SHAWN TO BE MISSING, WE TURN TO OUR OLD FRIEND H1N1. ALSO, SHAWN'S FRIDGE IS GROSS.
FORMAT: FICLOG, NOT IN ALL CAPS
Shawn was sick. He swore on everything from Gaster's stinky kitty butt to the Dole pineapple plantation that it was the swine flu—oh wait excuse him, H1N1 flu—but Lassiter ignored his declarations of impending death. Even if it was H1N1, it was still just a flu, and just because manufacturers of flu vaccinations tried to make it sound like the apocalyptic disease Earth has been waiting for, Lassiter knew it was still just a flu.
Shawn was in a bad state, nonetheless. Feverish, sweaty, clammy, snot and tissue everywhere. All-in-all, it was sad and pretty gross. Leave it to Shawn to have a suitable proper job finally and to become immediately sick as soon as he was to start. But Lassiter was a kind, if begrudging, significant other and he stopped off at Shawn's barhome to deliver him various things he may need. Medicine, bottles of water, various foodstuffs that might be edible in his current state. He dropped the bag of stuff on the bar's counter before wandering up the stairs to see if he was awake.
He barely looked like he was, but when the door creaked open, Shawn slowly turned to look at it anyway. He was under three layers of blankets and one cat on his chest despite the warmth of the season. Any vague thoughts that Shawn might be faking completely left at seeing his miserable face. He could barely crack out the joke, “What, no nurse outfit? Worst boyfriend ever...”
“It smells in here,” he said in way of a reply, marching straight up to him and immediately putting a hand to his forehead.
“I haven't left the bed in two days,” he muttered, eyes closing under the touch. “Are you staying?”
Lassiter tutted, “You're hot, I'll give you something,” pause, “before I go. I'm only here on my lunch break.” Shawn's eyes grew wide and pitiful. “I'll come back after work, though, if just to check on you. You might as well stay here since you look settled. I brought medicine and food for you. I'll put the food in the fridge, all right? It's little fruit package things. In tiny plastic cups.” He tried to awkwardly illustrate it with his hands since Shawn was looking at him dumbly. But that might have just been the fever, surely Shawn knew about fruit cups. “All right? I'll be back.”
He patted him on the shoulder and turned to leave, stomping back down the stairs and pulling out the medicine and water to the counter to take upstairs, and wandering to the fridge to put away the fruit. And that was when he made his first mistake: opening that fridge door.
It was horrible, it was awful, it was a pit, an absolute cesspool. An ice cream sandwich laid in a heap at the foot of it, a smear of melted, sticky ice cream down the vegetable crispers. There were boxes of Chinese and pizza so old there was mold on the outside. There looked like leftover spaghetti just plopped on the surface like he had lost the plate somewhere between the kitchen and the fridge.
And there was a shoe. An old, ratty sneaker. Right there. By the spaghetti.
That was only a few of the things, untold piles of stuff was on every surface and in every cranny of the refrigerator.
Lassiter wasn't ashamed to admit, he screamed. Upstairs Shawn heard it, and cocked his head in confusion. Then jumped hard enough when he heard a gunshot to practically throw Gaster across the bed. “Lassiii? Terrrr?” he tried to call out hoarsely, wondering if Lassiter had decided suicide would be better than taking care of a sick and whining Shawn Spencer. Maybe Shawn shouldn't have called him 15 times in the past 3 and a half hours.
To his relief, he heard footsteps running up his stairs and Lassiter barged in, holstering his gun before rushing to the bed and yanking on Shawn's arm. “We're leaving. Your fridge. Something was in it, something not of this world,” he babbled as he pulled Shawn around, getting pants and a shirt on him, “borne from mold and tennis shoe, why the hell do you have a tennis shoe in your fridge, you're going to my place, you're not safe with that in here.” He picked up a startled and yowling Gaster and turned to face Shawn with the professional stoicism of a veteran police officer, “After work I'm going to burn your fridge.”
Shawn looked aghast as he clung to Lassiter's arm to keep from falling over, all the rushing and panic making him dizzy and nauseous. “I worked months to get it that way! It's perfect! Lassi, do you not understand the art behind recreating 'Apocalypse Now' in a refrigerated setting! I was going to submit photos to an online cont—“
He was cut short by the sudden flurry of vomit escaping him. Lassiter stopped with a disgusted groan, but a few seconds later just pulled him in to a brace and ushered him quickly out of the barhome, muttering, “Whatever that thing was will eat the floor clean.”
END?!