I like this writing style. It's kinda cute I think…
Disclaimer: One cannot simply ROCK into ownership.
It wasn't exactly surprising, he wasn't superman, shockingly enough he was in fact human with just a bit of god thrown into the mix to create a rather paranoid cocktail.
So in all honesty they should have seen it coming, not even a Shinigami should be able to stand outside in the rain at 1 o'clock in the morning without feeling the consequences, it was fine for Liz and Patti, they were in weapon form and who'd ever heard of twin pistols catching a cold?
Oh no. It was their inexperienced meister who thought he could be the ever so cocky and not wear a coat.
So when Death the Kid sluggishly made his way down the stairs - not even noticing the uneven stacks of books to either side of him, nursing a major headache and sniffling every two seconds Liz immediately spotted a problem.
She confirmed the theory that he'd caught a bug when Kid then tried to find some cereal in the shoe rack…
He did not go quietly.
Just because he had a hotter body temperature than the sun and a migraine the size of Black Star's ego did not mean he couldn't put up a, albeit slightly pathetic, fight.
It took three lamps, twelve illegal wrestling moves and an elephant tranquilizer before Kid finally succumbed to his fate and was dragged to the nearest sofa. Wrapped head to toe in giraffe coloured blankets, with two thermometers stuck under his tongue.
Liz wasn't going to pretend she was an expert in the field of medicine but a blind snail would be perfectly licensed to give the diagnoses.
"Kid, you've got the flu"
"Doh I habn't" (Shinigamilator: No I haven't!)
"You're boiling up and attempted to flee the house in your pyjamas"
"…dat dubn't proov dnything!" (Shingamilator: That doesn't prove anything!)
"Kid, face it, you're as sick as a dog. Now lie there and try not to do anything stupid" Liz went on, she didn't want to tie the boy down but would have to if he attempted to go check the candles or straighten a photo frame on her watch. She gave a meaningful nod toward Patti who saluted and quickly turned her attention to glaring at the sniffling death god.
"Don't even think about moving punk!"
"Des ma'am" (Shinigamilator: Yes ma'am…) he croaked, trying to focus in on the perfectly symmetrical wall opposite…now if only it would stop spinning…
Whenever Kid sneezed the most adorable look of surprise etched itself onto his normally (most of the time) composed features, he almost looked fascinated at the biological process that most people went through at least once in their life.
"I'b neber been snick!" (Shinigamilator: I've never been sick!) he protests lamely before sneezing once more, blinking like a new born kitten after the reaction. Liz can't help herself, she bursts out laughing.
Kid, finding it easier not to talk rather than get misinterpreted, gives Patti a very dry stare that quite plainly says 'fuck no' as she presents to him something that may have once been part of a nuclear reactor.
"It's chicken soup" Liz injects, Kid attempts to pull the spoon out the mixture, the bottom half riddled with holes from the corrosive liquid. His eyebrow quirks up once more, pushing the offending meal away from him with a obnoxious snort.
Patti's smile drops, if possible the Shinigami turns even paler, with a croaky groan he pulled the bowl back toward him, taking a half hearted sip, Patti giggles sadistically as the boy makes a mad dash for the toilet.
It's the thought that counts after all…
"Hello – I heard Kid was-"
The door is promptly shut on a very innocent looking Dr Stein.
Even Patti is fairly sure a scalpel is not needed to cure a cold.
During the day, Kid tries to read and the sisters try to cure him – with rather overly elaborate measures. Mostly involving illegal plant substances and military weaponry…
It's the day they advance on him with two pigeons and a soldering iron does he finally start to worry about their sanity.
And this is Kid talking.
The best part about being a Shinigami is the speedy recoveries.
The worst part is having people who care to damn much trying to speed that process along.
Mostly ending up sending him back to square one.
His father – who surprisingly remembered where the house was – had popped in several times when he thought Kid was sleeping, stacking the books he'd finished with into equal piles and making sure the candles and toilet paper were in their correct positions, tucking him in and accusing him of being far to much like his mother.
Maka and Soul noisily made appearances likes clockwork – aka every time the bar was closed and Spirit was on the prowl. Maka chastised him for not taking care of himself; Soul just laughed and told him what a loser he was. But they always came.
Black star invited the whole of Shibusen.
The population of what felt like the world.
He found it rather disturbing to know they all cared.
The cliché 'no one appreciates what I do until I stop doing it' is often tossed around a lot, particularly by working mothers.
However after the fifteenth Black Star mêlée the prestigious school was starting to look like a building in central London after the German blitz.
Kid only has three goals in life:
A – Make the world symmetrical
B – Never get ill again…ever…
C – Become the best death god theres ever been.
His father sometimes wonders if maybe he's got his priorities a tad mixed up…
At the end of it all Gallow's mansion looks a tip, medicine, blankets, various buckets and attempts at cooking litter the floor.
Kid sighs and robotically (almost helplessly) goes about cleaning up the tornado his sickness has brought upon the house, switching off the lamp and gently tucking the others in on the couch, exhaustion written on all of their faces.
He takes a deep breath, revelling in the feeling, before deciding that maybe the vacuuming can wait till morning…
"Dis is'nt funny" (Lizalator: This isn't funny!) groaned the scathing Thompson sister, Patti giving a dry cough from the couch parallel to her as they both sneezed in unison.
"Dell me abdout it" (Makalator: Tell me about it) grumbled the seething Maka, shivering slightly despite the twenty or so blankets currently enveloping her small form. Soul snored lightly from the other end of her sofa, occasionally moaning in his sleep.
Kid hummed quietly in the kitchen, ignoring the griping ingrates next door as he added the final touch to the legal and non-life-threatening chicken soup he'd been perfecting for the last 3 hours.
He hardly ever said thank you-
"Here's your soup you unsymmetrical bunch of freeloaders"
But not sending them to Stein said it all.
Good? Bad? Go drown yourself you pitiful British loser? (who has such a thick accent, drinks tea and often says 'bollocks')
Criticism, cake and hugs are always welcome.