Fandom: Tron
Summary: Set Pre-Movie events. Roy's stuck at home with a cold, and Alan is obnoxiously helpful.


*Cough. Cough cough, COUGHcoughcoughcough, snrf*

Alan winced in sympathy as he shut the door behind him with a foot, shopping bags balanced in his arms. "Still alive in there?" he called, as he stuck his head into the living room of Roy's pokey little apartment.

Roy glowered as threateningly as he could manage from the huddled lump of blankets and tissues that had swallowed the living room couch. With red-rimmed eyes and an epic case of bed-head going on with his curls, the death-glare was largely ineffectual.

"Shuddup, Al'n," he grumbled, wheezing into a fresh round of coughing.

Alan smirked and ducked back out to put away the groceries he'd brought.

The jet stream had been unusually in flux that year, and had swept a front of holiday colds in with the late winter chill. The first victims had come in with sniffles on Monday. Coupled with a minor, somewhat annoying virus that had managed to infiltrate the Encom servers over the weekend, the whole office had come down with a case of the grumps as they battled infected code and illness-shortened tempers alike. It had taken the team three days to purge the virus from the system.

Quick action may have saved their electronics, but human immune systems weren't nearly as easy to fortify. Alan had managed to avoid catching the bug that had taken out half the programmers by the end of the week, but Roy hadn't been as lucky.

It was perhaps a little mean of him to whistle as he poured chicken soup into a mug and heated it up in the microwave, but Alan was feeling oddly triumphant about having dodged the year's flu bullet.

"Here we go," he said gaily, bringing the mug of steaming liquid and a package of cough drops out to his patient. "Medicine and sustenance. I got you some soup from that place on the corner. They didn't have vegetable, but I got them to pick out all the bits of chicken, so it's just noodles and broth…and celery, it looks like. Yum yum."

"I hade dou," Roy hissed, clutching his stuffed, aching head. "A poxs on d'ou an' your s'dupid good health. Hand o'ber the sou'b an' s'dop bein'k so cheerful."

Alan grinned unrepentantly and handed his friend the mug, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. He reached out to brush a hand against Roy's forehead, shifting aside curls as Roy sipped gingerly at the hot soup. Roy scowled and batted his hand away.

"Well, good news: you don't have a fever," Alan said, unperturbed at the sour attitude. "And better news: we finished purging the virus from the last of the infected folders. I brought your files home from quarantine so you can poke at them."

Roy perked up at this and made a 'give it here' motion with a hand, slurping from his mug. "Than'g God. I was going'k nu's just sitting'k here with nu'ding to do."

Alan smirked and got up to fetch the file box containing a handful of floppy disks. "I know," he said dryly. "That's why I insisted on security letting me take them; didn't want you getting bored enough to try and hack the Pentagon or something. Just," he jerked the box just out of Roy's reach, levelling a stern look at the sick programmer, "don't take this and start fiddling with it as soon as I leave. The files will keep for a few days. Focus on getting better first."

Roy scowled at him and grabbed for the box again, but didn't have quite enough energy to match the speed of the healthier man.

"Roy, promise."

"Ugh. Fine. I pro-*cough*-promise. Now gimme."

Alan handed over the box with a smirk that said he didn't quite believe him, but a promise was a promise. "Why am I not convinced you're entirely sincere?"

Roy made a face at him and cradled the box of floppies to his chest, tucking his knees up and nursing his mug of soup.

Alan chuckled gently and slapped his knees, rising to his feet. "Right, well. You're fed, you're watered, the rest of the soup is in the fridge, and I can reassure Lora you're not dead. My work here is done. I've gotta get back to the office."

"How's d'ur TRON thin' coming'k along?" Roy asked, curiously, stifling a few coughs against his arm.

"It's…coming," Alan said with a waffling shrug and a look of mild aggravation. "If TRON had been running, that virus over the weekend wouldn't have gotten as far as it did. But Dillinger's being difficult about it. I'm hoping the rest of the board will see sense about integrating it into the current security firewall, or else the next attack might do worse than take out a few small programs."

"Yeah, well, hin'sight," Roy commiserated with a facial shrug, and gave a weak punch to the air. "Go, Kemosabi. Fight, win."

Alan ruffled Roy's curls to a noise of protest, and headed for the door. "I'm going! And I'm serious, Roy, leave the computer alone! Rest, recovery! Sleep good!"

Roy threw a wad of tissue at his retreating back. "You're not b'y mother!"

Laughing, Alan shut the door behind him. Knowing Roy, he'd probably be off the couch as soon as Alan's key left the lock.