Fanfic Flu

Blair wiped a hand across his brow. He was exhausted.

Getting Jim into the truck hadnít been too difficult, and neither had driving home. Blair had made sure that heíd kept the windows rolled up tightly, so as not to inadvertently infect anyone else in Cascade with Sudden Onset Gayness. Thereíd been a bad moment in the elevator when the woman who had come to repair the cable started eyeing Mrs. Olsen, their elderly neighbor, but the repairwoman got on out the second floor, and, mercifully, Mrs. Olsen hadnít seemed to notice the attention.

But once theyíd gotten inside the loft, the door locked tight behind them, following the doctorís orders had proved significantly more difficult.

Jim had been out of it, eyes closed, swaying on his feet. His shirt was stained with sweat and whatever that oil was that theyíd used on him in the hospital. Blair had wrinkled his nose in disgust as heíd peeled it off Jim, wadded it up, and tossed it towards the bathroom and the hamper.

The pants had come undone and slid down Jimís legs easily, but Jim seemed incapable of moving his feet to step out of them, despite Blairís instructions. Of course!, Blair had thought, mentally smacking himself in the forehead, the doctor said heíd be completely unable to do basic things for himself.

Heíd eyed the stairs to Jimís bedroom with uncertainty, and then had turned back to look at his friend. It seemed impossible Ė Jim had at least five inches on him. But then heíd remembered what the doctor had said - I recommend that you remove his clothing and carry him to bed.

Sighing, Blair had hauled Jim into a firemanís carry over his shoulder. What choice did he have? Jim was his best friend, and he wanted him to get well.

And, he had to admit, there was a small part of him that was curious about the wild monkey sex that was going to take place later. Hey, heíd never been one to shy away from new experiences.

Heíd staggered up the stairs, breath harsh in his throat, spots dancing in front of his eyes. Christ, Jim was heavy! Heíd barely made it to the bedside before his knees gave out, dumping Jim onto the bed somewhat unceremoniously.

Now he sat on the side of the bed, marshalling his strength for the next phase.

You will need to sponge his sweaty torso regularly and thoroughly.... The doctorís voice echoed in his head.

Dutifully he went downstairs to get supplies, amazed to find that the cabinet under the sink was well-stocked with bowls and sponges. Jim must have picked that stuff up at some point, because he sure didnít remember buying it during their last shopping trip.

He was about an hour into sponging when Jim groaned and his eyes fluttered open. "W-what the hell happened?..." he murmured faintly.

"Youíve got fanfic flu," Blair told him.

"What?" Jimís glare could have sliced cheese.

"Donít worry, youíll be fine," Blair said, soothingly, continuing to sponge. He decided not to mention the Sudden Onset Gayness or the wild monkey sex for now. Jim looked kind of cranky.

"Sandburg," Jim started, irritation evident in his tone, "sweetheart, youíre my whole life, youíre everything to meó" He snapped his mouth shut, his eyes meeting Blairís, wide with alarm. "Thatís not what I meant to say," he whispered to himself.

Shocked at the unlikely nickname, Blair just stared at him, hand and sponge poised over his chest. "Itís not?"

"No," Jim said hoarsely. "What I meant to say was... honey, baby, sweetcheeks, sugar bun, love muffinó" He clamped his mouth shut again, a look of disgust on his face.

Blair redoubled his sponging efforts, a small knot of anxiety beginning to grow in his belly. This didnít seem like it was helping at all. In fact, Jim seemed like he was getting worse. "Maybe I should go call the doctor," he said uncertainly.

Jim shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. Muffled sounds emanated from his closed mouth. He waited, and after a few minutes of silence he took a deep breath. "No," he began calmly, "baby, donít leave me. I know I donít deserve you; Iím just an old, washed up cop, but youíre all I have in the world, the only thing that means anything to me. If you leave me, Iíll dieó" He clapped his hand over his mouth, cutting off the flow of words.

Horrified, Blair thought he could see tears gathering in Jimís eyes. He stood quickly, putting the bowl and sponge on the ground, and pointed down the stairs. "Calling the doctor now," he said, and hurried from the room.

The doctor came right over, which surprised Blair a little, because he didnít think that doctors made house calls anymore. She had another woman in tow, whom she introduced as "my nurse, in case I have to draw blood or something." But Blair thought the nurse looked suspiciously like the candy striper heíd last seen at the hospital. And he noticed the doctor was oddly flushed and breathing heavily.

"What are Jimís symptoms?" the doctor asked.

Snapping out of his reverie, Blair explained what had happened. "And heís calling me these pet names, and saying stuff Iíve never heard Jim say, and... and...." he dropped his voice low, "I think... I think he was about to cry for a minute up there."

The doctorís eyes gleamed. "I was afraid of this," she said solemnly. "It sounds like Jim has COCK."

"Well, yeah, obviously, but...."

"No, no Ė I mean Complications: Out of Character Kink. Itís a potential worsening of fanfic flu." She turned a gimlet eye on Blair. "You did follow my instructions exactly, didnít you?"

"Yeah," Blair replied.

"You removed his clothing and carried him to bed?" she asked.

"And almost got a hernia in the process," said Blair.

"You sponged him regularly and thoroughly?"

"The bowlís still up there."

"And whispered soft endearments in his ear?"

"Oh, man... I... well, uh, I might have forgotten about that," Blair said, gulping. "But after all, Doc, we are guys!"

The doctor was shaking her head. "This is very serious. COCK can be very difficult to treat."

"Oh, jeez...." Blair ran a hand through his hair. "Well, just tell me what to do, Doc. I want Jim to get well." Blair brightened as a thought struck him. "Maybe if I bought him a big bunch of flowers and promised to exchange rings he'd recover quicker?" Then he paled Ė he'd been about to ask if giving Jim some Tylenol might help, but it had come out all wrong!

Then he noticed that heíd somehow acquired three or four more flannel shirts over the one heíd been wearing when they got home. And what was more, the sleeves on the shirt were growing, the cuffs sliding over his hands, covering his fingers ó no, he realized, with a start; his arms were shrinking!

As he pushed the sleeves of his shirts up, he was horrified to see his hands changing; his fingers growing long and tapered, his wrists becoming delicate and slender. His jeans were already hanging off his hips, the excess length puddling at his ankles. He shot a terrified look at the doctor. "Doc?" he asked, his voice quavering, "whatís happening to me?"

The doctor looked very grave. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that this condition is very contagious. It appears that you have contracted COCK as well."

Blair's hands went straight to his groin as panic flared. "I've got a contracted cock?" he squeaked.

The doctor rolled her eyes.

Thankfully, Blair worked it out after a moment or two, but there was no time for celebration. His trials and tribulations were far from over. "Doc," he groaned, "I'm feeling really vulnerable right now. I have a terrible fear that if Jim were to speak to me roughly, I might just cry." He started to tear up at the very thought.

"Then there's no time to lose," the doctor said, steering Blair toward the stairs, "we canít wait for page 22. You're going to have to take Jim, I mean matters, into your own hands, before your character is compromised altogether. Unless the monkey sex happens right now, I'm afraid that an infestation of OTTA will cause us all to lose the will to live."

Blair had just enough presence of mind to query, "OTTA?"

"Over the top angst," the doctor clarified.

"One question, Doc," Blair said, his foot on the bottom step. "Do we need a live monkey? Because I know where to get one of those."

"Not at all," the doctor said, hustling her nurse roughly towards Blairís room under the stairs. "Itís just a figure of speech. Are those clean sheets on that futon?"

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