This is what happens when I come down with food poisoning and have a 102.3 fever. The boys wouldn't want to work on one of the half a dozen fics we already started, they want to start a new one. Typical.

Lips and scratchy stubble press against your forehead, making your eyes open slightly. You come face to face with a black t shirt, a tanned neck and a small view of the rosary beads around your boy's neck.

"Oy!" Connor exclaimed, leaning back to put his palm in your forehead while reaching for the thermometer. "You are burning up lass."

Your teeth chatter as you loosing your jaw to speak. "That why I'm so cold?" you whine just before he stuffs the glass tube under your tongue. You reach a hand out from your cocoon of blankets and wrap icy fingers around the wrist holding the tube in your mouth while he watches the clock.

"Jesus wept , girl, " he muttered softly, looking at the thermometer. "102.1. Murph! Grab the Advil and bring it here would you?" he yelled.

You heard the tell tale shake of Advil from the kitchen followed by Murphy's plodding footfalls. You open your eyes to see him standing in the door way of your bedroom, fork in a take out container in his hand, a bottle off Advil tucked under his arm.

"Murphy, what the hell are you doing eating that?"

He shrugged. "Figured you weren't gonna," he scraped the side of the fork along the bottom of the container catching the last of the sauce of your dinner out with your girlfriends last night, the one that put you in bed with an ever an increasing assortment of uncomfortable symptoms.

"I told you anything in in the fridge was fair game except that, you dumbass!"

It suddenly dawn on him what you are tying to tell him. "You mean..." he trails off before dropping the Advil in his brother's hand, turning and running for the bathroom down the hall. You heard the fork and container hit the floor two seconds before the sound of retching began.

You buried your head under the covers clamping your hands over your ears. You've always been a sympathetic puker. And with your stomach in an uproar already, your only hope is to plug your ears and pray. You feel the bed sink, and a hand land on your back moving in comforting circles. You kept yourself cocooned until you felt the reverberations of Connor's voice on your back. Pulling your head free, you find Murphy in the doorway, his toothbrush in his mouth, talking to his brother angrily in what you have learned is Gaelic.

"Look," you admit, catching both of their attention. "It's almost cute you two have secret codes and shit but some days it's annoying as hell. And today would be such a day. What the hell are you two talking about?"

Connor kicked off his shoes as Murphy huffed down the hall. He crossed the room, opening one if the drawers in your dresser and pulled out a pair of sleep pants. "Murphy is convinced you are contagious."

"Then he can go hang out elsewhere."

Connor nodded, stripping off his shirt and jeans before grabbing his sleep pants from the bottom of your bed. Pulling back the covers, he slipped between the sheets and blankets. Reaching across you, he grabbed ginger ale Murphy waltzed into the room carrying in addition to your box set of Stargate. Popping two Advil, you sipped at the bubbling liquid before handing the glass to Connor to put on the nightstand next to the bed. You snuggle your face into his neck while Murphy figures out which disc you all left off on last time.

"Ascension," you remind him.