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Sick for a Week

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"This is some bullshit," Riley muttered, kicking the front door shut on the October chill.

His backpack hit the floor, making too small of a thud to assume there was anything homework related inside, and his coat followed it. Riley left them both piled in the foyer and, ignoring the sounds of Grandad and the television echoing through the estate, went immediately upstairs and swung open the door of the bedroom he shared with his brother, a frown set on his face.

"Nigga, you feelin' better today?" he demanded.

The muffle, indistinct response from the bed across the room was followed by a series of agitated coughs. Riley scowled, jerking the door shut again. He listened to Huey's coughing subside before going to lean over the railing of the loft.

"Hey, Grandad!" he shouted, making sure to be heard over the noise below. Sudden silence from the old man, but the television kept running in the background. "Hey, Grandad! C'mere!"

The remote clattering onto the coffee table was the first sign that he had Grandad's attention. The next came with a lot of grumblings and angry footsteps down the hall. Robert stopped just below the loft, glaring up at Riley.

"Don't talk to your Grandad that way," he rebuked, "What the hell d'you want?"

"Come up here," Riley said, his arms crossed on the rail, "I gotta talk to you abou' somethin'."

"If you make me come up there, I'm gonna be the one doin the talkin'," Robert said, his hands on his hips.

Riley frowned.

"Huey ain't breathin'," he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

That got Grandad up the stairs.

"Boy, what'd you do to him?" Robert snapped, jumping to conclusions. Riley stepped away from the rail as Grandad reached the loft and justified his accusation with, "He was breathin' before you got home."

"Grandad, I was jus' playin' --" And that got him cuffed. "Ow! What the hell, Grandad!"

Riley touched the side of his head, his glare fiercer now. Robert shared the expression, and pointed a finger at his youngest grandson.

"That's for givin' me a heart attack," he said, "And don't be yellin' any more. You know your brother ain't feelin well."

"Tha's exactly mah point!" Riley said loudly, ignoring the 'don't yell anymore' part of Grandad's comment and waving an arm at the bedroom door, "This nigga been sick for a week! You gonna have to give 'im somethin' other'n NyQuil, Grandad, cuz he ain't gettin' no better and I'm sick a goin to school by mah self. Last time I was sick, Huey got to stay home."

"You know damn well that Huey was sick, too," Robert said, frowning.

"Yeah, well," Riley said, swiftly maneuvering around this fact, "What if I get sick, now? Just cuz --"

"Boy, what d'you mean 'if'?" Grandad cut in, "You'll prob'bly be outta school next week with the same damn thing."

"Okay, okay when I get sick, then," Riley snapped, "Just cuz Huey gonna die with it don' mean I got to. You need to take 'im to the doctor or somethin', cuz I'd like to know what I'm gettin sick with. I bet they gotta cure for it."

Exasperation crossed Robert's face.

"Riley, he's not gonna die. It's just a cold."

"Last time I had a cold, I got better." Riley pointed toward the door. "He ain't."

"You ain't exactly gonna be runnin circles when you get sick," Robert reminded him, fully aware that Riley was the complainer when an illness struck him, and grateful that Huey opted to sleep it off, "He'll be alright if you'll leave 'im the hell alone."

"I ain't been botherin' him!" Riley rethought this statement at a skeptical look from Grandad and said, "Okay fine. But that's beside the point, Grandad, he still ain't gettin' better."

"And what the hell makes you think that?"

"I haven' had to duck for three days," Riley said matter of factly.

When Robert raised a questioning eyebrow at him, Riley opened the bedroom door and leaned in, his hand on the doorframe.

"Hey, Huey," he called, just to get his brother's attention. When he was sure that he had it, the 8-year-old plowed into, "You must have some sorta bitch illness, cuz you sounded more'n more like a bitch ev'ry day with that fake-ass coughin'. When'a hell you gonna get up out the bed? I'm tired a carryin' your school work home jus' cuz Jazmine thinks you got the plague--"

Riley flinched when the book sailed past his head, and the open door, banging against the wall behind him. He promptly pulled the door closed and looked at Grandad.

"See?" Riley crossed his arms. "He didn' even hit the door today. His visions all blurry and shit; he couldn't focus on me if I were standin' right in front of 'im! And he's been keepin' me up all night tossin' and turnin', so I know he ain't gettin' no rest. Have you actually been in'ere and looked at him?"

"Well...no, but," Robert said, put-off by the flood of information.

"The nigga looks like he been run the hell over," Riley said, "I bet he ain't ate nothin' since the other day. If the plague don' kill 'im, starvation sure as hell will. Think abou' it, Grandad, would you rather pay for a doctor, or a funeral?"

Robert frowned at him for a long moment, then gestured angrily back toward the stairs.

"Shut the hell up and go get your coat."

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(A/n) You would think Riley's ganster-slang would be an agony for me to write. And you're right! It was. xD I articulate when I write moreso than when I spracken, so a tiny part of me died writing the dialoge for him and Grandad (though I suspect that Huey's dialoge (whenever that may happen) will be easier on my OCD). All the same, I had a lot of fun thinking for/writing this and I will most definitely attempt it again soon. I fricken LOVE the Boondocks!

Please review~

--Motcn