O Método Snowflake - Parte I

This or That Gothic Snippet 8- Bedridden

This is also a continuation of gothic snippet 4- winter forest.

Inspired by my answers for this post by @blackrosesandwhump!

Whumpee sneezed for the third time in a row, sending little snowflakes floating around the room.

“Lunchtime, Whumpee!” Caretaker called.

Caretaker entered Whumpee’s room, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a steaming mug of tea.

“I made it myself,” Caretaker said proudly.

“Thanks,” Whumpee sniffled.

Caretaker set the tray on Whumpee’s lap and sat on the end of their bed. Whumpee picked up a spoonful of soup and blew on it to cool it. Whumpee didn’t account for their frost breath, however, so instead of merely cooling the soup, they ended up freezing it solid.

“Here, let me,” Caretaker said, taking the spoon and blowing on it.

Caretaker’s fiery breath thawed the soup and warmed it to a perfect temperature. Whumpee took the spoon back gratefully and slurped down the soup. The warm liquid felt soothing on their sore throat.

When Whumpee had finished eating, Caretaker took the tray and set it on the bedside table.

“I still don’t understand how I got sick in the first place,” Whumpee croaked.

“You were hypothermic for quite a while, Whumpee, I’m sure that had something to do with it,” Caretaker responded.

Caretaker put a hand to Whumpee’s forehead and frowned at the heat they felt there. Whumpee’s ice powers kept them colder than most, but right now they felt warmer than even a normal person.

“I think you might have a fever,” Caretaker said.

Whumpee shivered under the covers; their powers were still malfunctioning from the other day, and they were no closer to getting warm than they were to getting better.

“Would you like me to warm you up?” Caretaker asked.

“Could you?” Whumpee asked pitifully.

Caretaker nodded, then scooped Whumpee up into their arms. They bundled a blanket around Whumpee and concentrated on spreading their heat throughout their body. There was the distinct sound of a sigh of relief from Whumpee. Steam filled the room as Caretaker hugged Whumpee close.

“I think you might have thawed me out,” Whumpee laughed tiredly.

“Oh no, is that bad?” Caretaker asked, brows furrowed.

“No, no,” Whumpee said, “I typically freeze back up within an hour or so, and with my powers on the fritz I’m sure that’ll happen even quicker than usual.”

Whumpee threw off the covers and went to stand up.

“Woah, what are you doing?” Caretaker asked, pushing them back down.

“I-I just wanted to help put my bowl away,” Whumpee said sheepishly.

“Uh-uh,” Caretaker said, shaking their head, “If you stood up now, you’d probably fall over. No, you’re not leaving this bed until you’re better.”

“But you’ve already done so much,” Whumpee argued, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“If you were going to be a bother, I wouldn’t have rescued you in the first place, silly. Now stay put. I’m gonna go put this bowl in the sink.”

Caretaker grabbed the tray from the bedside table and left the room. Whumpee sighed and burrowed deeper into the covers. Caretaker was probably right, anyway. Whumpee had felt weak all day, if they tried to stand up, they’d probably collapse on the spot. It looked like they were stuck in this bed until their powers, and their fever, decided to calm down.

part 3

My results.

A12 with Heith for the pairing thing?

Here you are my dear! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Keith groaned in his sleep, burrowing his face into his boyfriend’s blanket-covered lap. He’d been stubbornly denying his illness during his waking hours, but had surrendered himself to sleep during their flight, covering as much of himself as he could with the airline-provided blanket that Hunk had requested. Hunk actually felt like he was baking in his own skin, but he hadn’t wanted Keith to to feel singled out and go on the defensive by asking for a blanket just for him. Plus, he was helping his poor, definitely feverish boyfriend keep warm on their twelve hour flight to visit Hunk’s family.

Keith stirred again, this time snuffling tiredly as his eyes fluttered open. Hunk smiled down at him, rubbing a hand through his rumpled hair,

“How did you sleep, baby?”

He resisted the urge to comment on the feverish heat he felt emanating from Keith’s forehead and instead continued to stroke the messy locks out of his face.

Keith yawned a bit and sniffled deeply before speaking,

“I slept okay. It’s hard to get comfortable when I can’t lay all the way out but it helps to have you to lean on.”

Hunk glanced surreptitiously at the man sitting on Keith’s other side by the window, he had already seemed annoyed by Keith’s sniffling and sneezing, and had gone quite red in the face with barely suppressed anger when Keith began kicking him in his sleep intermittently.

“Hih! H’KSCHH’SH!”

Keith seemed startled by the sudden sneeze, as if he hadn’t noticed that his nose had been twitching since he’d woken up. He barely had time to cover, spraying Hunk lightly in the process. His face turned beet red and he desperately scrubbed at Hunk’s shirt with his sleeve, while his other hand scrubbed at his still-twitching nose in an attempt to stave off the sneezes he felt tickling inside.

Hunk delicately pulled him to his chest, hoping that Keith was too out of it to have heard the man on his other side’s noise of disgust at the sneeze, and felt Keith’s hot breath hitching against his shirt.

“Shh, it’s okay, darling. Just let it out,”

Keith whimpered, breath still hitching,

“B-but… Ehhh’hih! People are gonda h-hhhate mbe!”

Hunk thought back to what little he knew about Keith’s past, and recalled that one of his longer periods living in one place had been with a foster family that was extremely germaphobic. Keith would be banished to the basement if he so much as sniffled. No wonder the poor guy was so terrified of letting his fit go.

Hunk rubbed his back comfortingly before taking his hands into one of his own, readying a handful of tissues from his bag in the other.

“Just sneeze, baby. I won’t let anyone say anything to you, okay?”

Keith couldn’t hold the sneezes back any longer even if he wanted to. His tear-filled eyes shut and he sneezed and sneezed until Hunk could feel the wetness of the mess seeping through the tissues into his hand. That wouldn’t do. He quickly placed the index finger of the hand that had been holding Keith’s hostage underneath the dripping appendage and rubbed hard to prevent more sneezes from slipping out, switching the soaked mess of tissues for some fresh ones.

There was something strangely beautiful about Keith in that moment, breath hitching dangerously as the sneezes struggled to escape, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and his face flushed with fever and exertion.

“Hah-Huhhnk. It t-tihhckles so bad.”

Hunk shook himself from his trance and removed his finger from the frantically twitching appendage, immediately thrusting the tissues to cover the impending sneezes.

“AahtCHTSShyew! Hh’CHTSshuh! HuhNGTChuh! HP’NGKshh!”

Keith panted in the aftermath of the fit, looking about ready to collapse. Just then the pilot came on the intercom and announced their descent. Hunk glanced down at his dozing boyfriend and smiled warmly; they’d made it. His family was going to spoil Keith rotten and make him feel so much better.

it’s the little sick things..

Inspired by an anon earlier: we’ll start with that

- when you make sickie laugh, and the laugh sounds like a half cough/half laugh 

- the small huff of frustration when sickie takes their jacket off, only to have to put it back on because the chills are back

- the worried look you give sickie when you spot them feeling their cheek with the back of their hand

- the wince when sickie has to use a rough paper towel on their nose because they are out of tissues 

- the whimpered “ow” sickie mutters after a rough coughing fit

- the tug of a shirt collar when sickie is suddenly feeling too hot 

- the hunched over posture when sickie’s stomach hurts 

- the jacket pockets filled with cough drops

- the shaky sigh when sickie enters school/work as if trying to mentally prepare for the day despite feeling horrible

- sickie sleeping with their head pillowed on their arms on their desk

- the concerned look only you give to sickie on the subway while everyone else grimaces at the coughing and sneezing 

- the defeated sigh when sickie realizes they left their umbrella home and it’s raining 

Bad Timing

Small fic to make up for my absence. Words: 1.5k

“Lance, you’re sick,” Keith stated. “You shouldn’t be here.” Lance rolled his eyes, shrinking back into his cubicle.

“I’m fine, I’ve told you. It’s just a cold,” Lance insisted. “Besides, I need to work.” Keith sighed, standing up and lunging for Lance, slapping his hand to Lance’s forehead.

“You’ve got a fever, Lance,” he said, clearly fed up with Lance’s denial. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“Keith, I’m not-” Lance broke off into a coughing fit, muffling it into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Sick,” he finished, his voice rough from the most recent bout of coughing.

“Very convincing,” Keith smirked. He grabbed Lance’s arm, hauling him up from his seat. “Let’s go.” Lance’s legs wobbled underneath him and he had no choice but to lean against Keith. They walked past the rows of cubicles, Hunk giving them a small wave as they passed him. Lance tried to muster a small smile, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace than anything else. Shiro stood at the end of the row of cubicles, and he surveyed Lance with a look of sympathy on his face.

“I’m taking him home,” Keith explained to their supervisor. “He’s sick.” Shiro nodded.

“You’re a good man, Keith.” As he passed them he gave Lance a pat on the back. “Feel better soon,” he said.

“Come on,” Keith said, supporting the majority of Lance’s weight as they walked. “We can take the elevator.” Keith pressed the button and the sleek silver doors slid open, allowing Keith and Lance to step inside. Lance immediately slid down to the floor, putting his head in between his knees and groaning. Keith pressed the first floor button, smirking. “You’re not sick, huh?”

“Shut up, Kogane,” Lance snapped. “I feel awful.”

“You look awful,” Keith commented, and he was telling the truth. He wasn’t sure how he had missed it earlier in the day but Lance was sporting huge bags underneath his eyes and his face was as pale as a ghost. His hair, usually perfectly brushed was a mess and he was shivering.

There was a thump and the elevator screeched to a halt. Keith frowned, walking over to the doors and running his hand across them. “Are we here?” Lance asked, taking his head out of his knees.

“Well, we’re definitely stopped,” Keith said, pressing the open doors button. The doors slid open effortlessly and Keith was staring at a seemingly bottomless abyss, cables running all the way down to the bottom, a place Keith’s eyesight didn’t quite reach. Lance stood up, walking over to Keith and placing a hand on the panel of buttons for support.

“Are we stuck?” Lance asked. They heard a phone ringing and Keith pulled his out of his pocket to see Shiro’s face lighting up the screen. Keith slid the answer button, bringing it up to his ear.

“Keith, are you and Lance in the elevator?” Shiro asked. He sounded stressed.

“Yeah, we’re stuck,” Keith responded. He could see Lance worriedly glancing at him as he spoke to Shiro. “What’s going on?”

“It’s broken,” Shiro responded. “I’ve got Pidge and Hunk working on it, but I’m not sure how long it’ll take.” There was a pause. “How’s Lance?” Keith glanced over at the brunet. Lance seemed to have paled ever since the elevator had stopped and he was staring into the abyss. He was still steadying himself against the button panel but he was still swaying and considering how close he was to the edge, Keith was worried.

“He’s okay, I think, but I think getting us out of here as fast as possible would be best,” Keith said.

“Well, Pidge and Hunk are working their hardest. Hang in there, okay?”

“Okay,” Keith said. He heard Shiro hang up and he turned to face Lance again only to see him swaying dangerously close to the edge. Grabbing him by his shoulders he steered Lance away from the edge, pressing the close doors button. “Maybe stay away from there, okay?” Keith said. “I don’t want you falling in.”

“Are we stuck in here?” Lance asked, sliding down to the floor again. Keith sighed, sitting down next to him.

“Yeah, but Pidge and Hunk are working hard. We’ll be out in an hour, tops.”

——

The two of them had been in the elevator for an hour and a half and, according to Shiro’s latest update, Pidge and Hunk were no closer to fixing the elevator. “How much longer, Shiro?” Keith asked, glancing over at Lance’s sleeping form. He was breathing through his mouth, slumped against the elevator door. “I’m starting to get worried about Lance. I think he’s getting worse.”

“You’re going to have to be patient, Keith. This is out of my hands.” Keith sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew Shiro was right but he could almost see Lance’s strength draining away.

“I know,” he said. Lance started to stir and he hung up the phone, all of his attention turning to the sick person next to him. “How are you feeling?” He asked anxiously as Lance blinked open his eyes. He brushed his hand against Lance’ cheek, wincing as he felt the heat coming from Lance’s face. Lance shrugged, coughing into his arm.

“Are they any closer to getting us out of here?” Lance asked, his voice quiet. He must have seen the look on Keith’s face because he groaned.

“They’ll be done soon, I promise,” Keith said, lying through his teeth. In truth, even Shiro didn’t know when they would be finished. Keith was tempted to complain but as he looked into Lance’s pale face, cheeks flushed red from the fever all of his anger seemed to melt away, transforming into the need to protect Lance and make sure he was okay. “Go to sleep,” he advised. “The time will go by quicker.” Lance nodded sleepily, already sinking down, his head hitting the paisley carpeted floor as he brought his knees to his chest, pulling his body into a ball. His eyes fluttered closed but shivers continued to run up and down his body, even as he drifted off. Keith slipped out of his sweatshirt, draping it over Lance. Even though Lance was asleep, Keith thought he could see Lance smile.

——

“How’s Lance doing?” Shiro asked. They were on their fifth hour in the elevator and Lance was still asleep. Keith, so as not to wake Lance, gently rested a hand on his forehead.

“I think his fever’s gone up,” he responded. On the other end of the line, Shiro cursed.

“How bad is he?” Keith glanced at Lance, at his pale face and shivering body.

“I’m not sure, but he needs to be in a bed, not a broken elevator.”

“I think it’ll be a few more hours,” Shiro said. “While you’re in there, try to get some sleep.”

“Will do,” Keith said. Shiro hung up just as Lance groaned, opening his eyes.

“Keith, I’m cold,” he said, his voice nearly gone. Keith sighed, laying down on the floor. He wrapped his arms around Lance, bringing Lance to his chest.

“Is this better?” he asked. He could feel Lance nod, and once again Lance fell asleep. Keith shut his eyes and, with Lance pressed against his chest, slowly nodded off.

——

Keith awoke to a thump. Immediately he shot up and next to him Lance raised his head, blinking sleepily. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I think they’ve fixed the elevator,” Keith responded, checking his phone. The screen flashed one twenty six a.m. back at him. “About time, too,” he muttered. Sure enough he could feel the elevator slowly going down, finally hitting something solid. With a dinging sound the elevator slid open, revealing a very relieved Shiro, Pidge and Hunk. Lance pushed himself up, staggering out of the elevator behind Keith.

“Are you two alright?” Shiro asked, his eyebrows knit. Keith glanced at Lance, who gave him a small nod, making Keith sigh in relief.

“Yeah, we’re both fine,” Keith said, making Shiro’s face split into a grin.

“Well, that’s the most important thing. I’m sorry the two of you had to go through that.” Lance offered a small shrug.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said. “I’m just glad I can go home.”

“Well, take the day off, all four of you,” Shiro said. “See you in two days.” Shiro, Pidge and Hunk left for the parking lot, leaving Lance and Keith alone in the lobby.

“Thanks for everything, Keith,” Lance said. “It was really good of you to help me.” He gave a small wave and a smile and began to walk to the parking lot, but Keith stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, I said I’d take you home, remember?” Lance frowned, coughing into his sleeve.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I’m okay to drive, and you’ve been here for hours. You must want to go home.” Keith shrugged.

“Yeah, but I want to make sure you get home safely. Let me take you home.” With a small pause Lance nodded, and the two of them pushed open the door, walking out into the chilly air of the parking lot.

“oh your poor thing” is such a versatile statement and it makes me melt in any situation

feeling for a fever and their forehead is really warm? “oh you poor thing, you have a fever”

they just sneezed and it sounded miserable/tired/wet? “oh you poor thing, need any tissues?”

or, even better, they just got finished with a coughing fit but they have to sneeze a few times “oh you poor thing, you must feel misreable/you must be really sick”

i just 💕💕

Have you got anything for parent-child comfort prompts?? Xx

Parent comforting child:

Cradling child close to their chest

Wrapping child in old blankets like a little burrito

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Assuring child that the pain isn’t their fault

Distracting child with their favorite things (toys, comfort items, ect.)

“Nobody’s going to hurt you as long as I’m around.”

Watching child’s favorite childhood movie with them (bonus points if child is all grown up)

Wiping child’s tears away, cupping their entire face with their hand because child is so small

“It gets better, I promise.”

Child comforting parent:

Knowing parent is hurting, even when they hide it

Crawling into parent’s lap quietly

Gently patting their parent’s hands/head

“Even though you’re big, it’s okay to cry.”

Wiping parent’s tears away, using their entire hand to do so because parent is so big

Writing parent a note in crayon to cheer them up (bonus points if they include a messy drawing of their parent smiling)

Doing chores if they are a bit older, knowing that taking care of other tasks will help parent relax

Pretending they’re the one who needs comforting, because they know parent will try to hide weakness in front of them

Go Home

I’m back with more snide restaurant coworker bullshit. No plot, just vibes - I used 3 different prompt posts in this, this one, this one, and this one, which are all just *chefs kiss*. Unbetad, unedited, just a big pile of garbage I threw together and shamelessly present unto you all. Hope you guys enjoy :)

In case you didn’t read my first story posted here, Elijah is a restaurant owner/General Manager and Greyson is a chef. That’s all you really need to follow along lmao. 

Go Home

“Greyson. Go home.”

Greyson’s head snapped up and his eyes locked with his boss’s as Elijah breezed out of the office and into the kitchen. “Why would I go home?”

“You’re sick. You have a cold.”

Greyson let his jaw fall open in mock aghast, put down his knife and placed a hand on his chest as if he needs to center himself after such an indoctrination. “I do not. How dare you. Why would you say that?”

Elijah rolled his eyes at the chef’s theatrics and placed his phone and laptop on the prep table where Greyson was working. “I say it because I’ve been here not even three minutes and the only things I’ve heard out of your mouth are sneezes and coughs.” He picked his things back up and poked the chef in the chest. “Go home.”

“That’s not even true, we just had a full conversa- HFTSHH-uhh!” Greyson caught the sneeze in an elbow, hastily brought to his face at the last moment. Elijah bleated out a laugh as he pushed through the kitchen doors and into the server’s station. “Bad timing!” Greyson called behind him.

“Go home!”

***

Greyson wasn’t about to just go home.

It was January, which meant it was painfully slow in the restaurant, but that didn’t mean he had nothing to do. They had a few big events coming up, and his team was only just recovering from some nasty bug that had taken them down one by one through the busy holidays. The guys needed the support of their chef, and Greyson certainly wasn’t one to take a sick day when his team needed him – especially when he wasn’t even sick.

“Huhh…huhETSHH-ue! Fuck me,” Greyson said, turning away from his prep station to sneeze into his shoulder for what felt like the millionth time that day. He walked to the sink nearest to him, pulled out a paper towel, and wiped his nose before washing his hands. He definitely wasn’t sick, but whatever was making him sneeze like it was his job was really starting to piss him off.

There were still several hours til service began, so Greyson decided to work on some new menu recon while he had a few moments of down time. The mushroom risotto dish he’d spent some time on still wasn’t quite there yet, but he’d tasted it so many times it had turned to mush in his mouth. Greyson scooped the less-than-perfect dish into a deli container and went out in search of his boss.

He knocked on the open office door at the front of the kitchen, where Elijah was seated and working on a schedule. Greyson scooped a bit of risotto onto a spoon and held it out. “Hey, boss, can you give this a taste?”

“I most certainly cannot,” Elijah said, not looking away from his work. Greyson couldn’t help but laugh.

“Uh…any particular reason why?”

Elijah raised his eyebrows and lolled his head to the side to look at the chef. “Two reasons, actually. One, you aren’t supposed to be here, so I’m ignoring you. And two -”

“Onesec – HGSTHH-ue! HRSHH-uh! Shit, sorry, ’scuse me, go on,” Greyson rubbed his nose on his shoulder and Elijah gave him a look of revulsion.

“Two,” he continued, pointedly placing a box of tissues at the end of the desk, facing Greyson, “I’m not eating off of your spoon because, as I have said, you are sick.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and held the spoon closer to Elijah’s face. “C’mon, man, I need some feedback.” He sniffled, trying not to sound pathetic. “Please?”

“If I try it, will you go home?”

“Probably not.”

Huffing exasperatedly, Elijah grabbed a fork off of the plate that had held his lunch earlier and stuck it pointedly into the deli container Greyson was holding. He took a bite while looking into Greyson’s red-rimmed eyes. “More parmesan,” he said, putting the fork back on the used plate beside him. “And too much truffle oil. Now go home.”

Greyson smiled and grabbed a tissue from the box Elijah had placed before him. “Thanks, boss,” he said, shoving the tissue in his pants pocket. “Can always count on y-yuhh…HGTSHH-uhh! Snf. Coundt ond you,” he finished, stuffily. Elijah glanced at the chef, eyebrows raised as if to say, you ready to admit defeat yet? Greyson just shrugged.

“I’ll take sombe claritin,” Greyson said lamely, pulling the tissue back out of his pocket and wiping his nose. “I’mb ndot sick.”

Elijah looked back at his computer. “Whatever you say, Grey.”

***

Whoever the fuck had given him this shit was about to feel his wrath.

…not that he was sick or anything.

It was four pm and the cooks were all sitting at the back of the kitchen eating staff meal before the restaurant opened. Alternatively, Greyson was crouched on hands and knees in his office, cursing under his breath while he searched for the ibuprofen he and Elijah kept in one of these drawers.

He figured it was most likely his sous chef, Matt who was the culprit. Kid couldn’t cover his mouth if you forced him with a gun to his head, and he’d been so sick on New Year’s that Greyson forced him to go to urgent care at the end of the night. Fucking Matt. Didn’t he know better than to come to work si -

“HuhETSHHue! GTSHH-uh! HRRSTCHH-oo! Fuck.”

Greyson abandoned his search for ibuprofen in lieu of the rapidly depleting tissue box on the desk. He pulled himself back into his desk chair and reached for the box -

Only to see Elijah holding it hostage at the entrance to their office.

“You’re not going to eat?” Elijah asked. Greyson, whose nose had begun running in earnest post-sneezing, gave a lame eye roll from behind his hand.

“Ndot hungry. Give mbe the tissues, please.”

“Oh, these?” Elijah asked, holding up the box theatrically. “Why ever would you need these? I mean, you’re so clearly well and spry. Healthy as a horse as they say.”

“Dude, just give them to mbe. Shouldn’t you be in pre-shift?”

“I was coming to get you for pre-shift, you bozo,” Elijah said, tossing the tissues at Greyson. “But now I’m beginning to question if the servers would even be able to understand what you’re saying.”

Greyson gratefully blew his nose facing away from Elijah and tossed the tissues in the trash. “Fuck directly off, Lij,” he said, the words punctuated with a hoarse cough. “I’m coming. Give me two minutes.”

“I’ll give you two days, how about that?” Elijah said, turning to leave the kitchen. “Go. Home.”

Greyson stood, reinvigorated by fury. “Fuck. Off,” he said in the same cadence as his boss. “I’m fine.”

Elijah threw his arms up in defeat and held the swinging door open for the chef. “C’mon, then,” he said, gesturing Greyson towards the dining room. “Let’s go infect my entire staff.”

***

An hour into service, Greyson felt his phone buzz. Twice.

It wasn’t a busy service – people were out of money post-holiday it seemed – so Greyson was working on menu ideas and scheduling in the office while Matt held down the line and his cooks did some deep cleaning. Or, he was attempting to do scheduling between bouts of -

“Huhhh…HGTSSHH-ue! HRRSHH! HPTSSH-oo!”

“Bless, Chef,” Matt called to him from the line. Greyson flipped him the bird and pulled his once-again-vibrating phone from his pocket. Who the fuck was blowing him up? Everyone he knew was here.

Greyson wiped under his nose with a tissue and unlocked his phone. Eight new messages – all from Elijah. Jesus Christ. Was his boss really that lazy that he couldn’t walk the twenty steps from the dining room to the kitchen?

Greyson opened their text thread and immediately rolled his eyes.

5:21PM

Bless you.

Bless you.

5:46PM

Bless you.

You know everyone out here can hear you.

5:59PM

Bless you.

Bless you.

6:12PM

Bless.

Ok, seriously you sound like fuckin shit.

Greyson felt his face go hot as he typed out and sent his response.

6:15PM

Fuck off, Lij.

“HTSHHH-uhhh. Godammit.”

Greyson pulled the last tissue out of the box and blew his nose. So maybe he was kind of sick. A little bit. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He was a grown man for God’s sake, he couldn’t deal with a little cold at work?

The chef rubbed a hand down his face and used all his willpower not to groan. A little cold. A few hours left of work. A slow evening. If anyone could handle it, it was him.

***

Greyson was fairly sure he’d never been more miserable in his entire life.

It was ten pm, and the last table had finally cleared the building; not that Greyson would’ve known it. The chef was holed up in the employee bathroom, finally taking a minute to himself to blow his nose and wash his hands. What was supposed to have been a quiet night had suddenly picked up around seven – and with it, so did his cold.

He wasn’t sure how it worked out this way, but the moment five tickets printed at the same time on the line, Greyson felt the first whisper of a fever slither up his neck and make itself home behind both of his eyes. The tickets had continued to print, much to his chagrin, and after a few moments Matt had turned to his boss with panic in his eyes and frantically called, “Chef?!”

Greyson did what he was trained to; he pulled it together and hopped on the line to help his guys. He cooked and shouted orders and garnished and sent food out. He remade steaks when they came back overcooked, and he apologized when he yelled at his grill cook, who was new and clearly petrified. He ignored the massive headache blooming in his temples, and his cooks ignored the near-constant volley of sneezes he smothered into the inside collar of his chef coat. It was a rough one. Ticket times weren’t what they should’ve been, and he definitely screamed at his cooks more times than they deserved.

But it was over. And now, hours later, he stumbled out of the employee bathroom and into the office and slammed his ass into the chair, fully and completely spent. To his left, he felt Elijah’s hand firmly place itself on his shoulder.

“You killed it tonight. Truly,” Elijah said, his voice low. “We’re lucky to have you.”

Greyson looked at his boss, defeated. “I was an ass,” he said, his voice congested and hoarse. “I’m a dick. I yelled at Juan, and it wasn’t even his fault. Ticket times were trash. I wasn’t on top of it the way I should’ve been and I – huh…HUGTSSH-uhh! HUHESHHHOO!” Greyson swiped angrily under his nose and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “And I have a fuckigg cold.”

Elijah sat silently for a moment, and Greyson figured he was getting ready to gloat or make some sort of snide comment about how he knew Greyson was sick, and Greyson was an idiot for being there at all, but instead he heard his boss get up and leave the office. Greyson looked up from his hands after a few minutes of silence to see Elijah standing over him with a new box of tissues and a bottle of whiskey.

“I know,” he said, sitting down and pushing both of his peace offerings towards Greyson. “But you did it anyway. And that’s badass.”

Greyson had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could look his boss in the eye again. “You’re a kndow-it-all prick,” he said, taking a tissue and unscrewing the whiskey cap. He took a swig, and blew his nose, unsure what else to say.

“I’m aware,” Elijah replied. “But I’m right.”

Greyson looked at his boss and managed a smile. “I thindk…I mbay have to call out tomorrow.”

Elijah couldn’t help but laugh. “Grey,” he said, “if I see your ass in this building anytime before the weekend, I’ll send you home in a bodybag.”

This time, it was Greyson’s turn to laugh. “Honestly…body bag doesn’t sound too bad at this poindt.”

Elijah smiled and pushed the whiskey towards the chef once more. “Get yourself nice and drunk, chef. I’ll drive you home.”

O método snowflake - Parte II

Atenção: Essa é a segunda parte do post. Confira a primeira aqui

Olá, escritor!

Se você seguiu os passos da primeira parte do post, a sua história já deve estar ficando bem desenhadinha e o floco de neve já deve estar tomando forma.

A boa notícia é que metade do trabalho já foi!

A má notícia, no entanto, é que você ainda vai ter trabalho pela frente.

Vamos aos passos?

Continuar lendo