Chapter Text
Sometimes Greg’s back hurt, Iain knew. Sometimes his knees would ache, because the idiot was almost fifty and didn’t think that his age should have any bearing on his ability to knock down young jocks on the football field. But he didn’t have an angry stomach that kept him up at night, and as far as Iain was concerned — Greg’s problems could stuff it.
The gorgeous bastard was fast asleep anyway.
He, meanwhile, perched on the edge of the sofa with his head in one hand, and his free arm wrapped around his waist. It didn’t help. It was just vaguely comforting. Better by far than the handful of antacids that hadn’t done anything.
Neither had toast.
Or milk.
At that point, he wasn’t sure what Plan D was, but knocking himself unconscious was beginning to look like a nice option. Maybe he’d just wake Greg up and make him do it.
Hey — get out of bed. I need you to take this table leg and smack me in the head, all right?
Yeah, that’d go over well. But Greg wouldn’t do it. He’d just coddle him, and try to be reassuring — for a whole five minutes, until he fell asleep again.
Iain sighed. He couldn’t hold that against him. Greg was a light sleeper, and had lost a lot of irreplaceable hours working for the Yard. Begrudging him his ability to fall asleep quickly wasn’t fair.
He just wished— …well. He wished he was back in bed, where it was warm. He wished he could curl up in those surprisingly strong arms and not be bothered with this hellish fire keeping him upright.
He rubbed his palm across his eyes.
There was a Plan Z — not to be confused with Dan’s Plan Zs, which were always awkwardly detailed survival guides in the event of a zombie apocalypse. His Plan Z was significantly less complicated, but so-named for its ludicrous nature.
It was something of a homoeopathic remedy his mother had taught him when he’d first started having these problems. But the preparation alone was going to be noisy. He’d need a big bowl, a knife and a few things he knew he wasn’t going find in Greg’s kitchen.
Shredded flitterbloom. Horklump juice. A bit of shrivelfig, of course — and some peppermint to taste.
Not to mention a sleeping spell to keep his dozing companion from wandering into the kitchen while he was in the middle of brewing a simple potion.
It was far too much effort for one evening.
He’d tell Greg about the magic one day. But not tonight.