#hatchetfics

Lance takes one short look at Lorelai as she throws the backpack on the floor next to the dinner table in his living room, and it tells him all he needs to know. 

“You’re not sick again, are you?”

Lorelai blinks at him for a few moments, bleary and tired, and Lance is half–convinced that he’ll need to spring out of his seat and catch her in the next few seconds when Lorelai clears her throat and shakes her head.

“Absolutely fuckin’ not.” She says, and then contradicts herself in the worst way by almost sneezing her brains out. Right into her elbow, and Lance gets brutally reminded to never borrow any of her clothes again, no matter how comfy they are. “Where did you get that idea from?”

“... No reason.” He lies through his teeth, and watches Lorelai struggle with the zipper of her backpack. “Maybe you want to lay down?”

“I’m not a baby, Lancelot, I don’t need a—” an absolutely monstrous sneeze, “nap.”

“Yeah.” 

Lorelai sneezes, then yawns, and then barks out a strange combination of another yawn mixed with a cough. She almost slumps over his dinner table, but hauls herself up once again to dive into her backpack, looking like a ragdoll being thrown around with telepathy.

“Maybe—” He puts one hand on her bare arm, and Lorelai hisses. Like a wild cat with rabies.

“Jesus, Lance! Give a girl a warning before you come with your freaky cold hand, will you?”

Lance opens his mouth to defend himself, what the hell, Lorelai. Then he remembers that trying to fight with a sick Lorelai is absolutely useless, and resumes his work to straight up pick her up from the chair and put her on the nearest flat, comfy surface.

“Wha—” She blinks, but once her head hits Lance’s covered collarbone, all signs of consciousness disappear. Her cheek rests on his shoulder, smacked like she’s already fallen asleep, and he only knows that she’s awake by her pattern of breathing — too fast for usual asleep–Lorelai speed. Otherwise, she’s completely limp, snoring through her clogged nose, and Lance already tenses up knowing how bad her colds can get.

He sets her down on his bed as gently as he possibly can, but she still stirs when he tears her already–sweaty face off his sweater. 

Lorelai stares at him with wide, dark eyes for a few moments before he awkwardly rattles off, 

“Do you need something?”

Her nose scrunches up, and she yawns again, curling up in his goddamn Arthur and the Invisibles blanket. 

“Nah.” She pulls the corner of the blanket higher, up to her face, but opens her eyes again. The way she looks reminds Lance of when they were younger, maybe in elementary school, and his mom would let her stay over for weeks when her dad worked across the country just to keep them afloat. “Actually, can y’do your work here?”

Oh. Of course. 

(He’d run to the end of Earth for her.)

“Sure thing.”

Lorelai snorts through the phlegm in her throat. “St’p talkin’ like my dad.” 

“Oh, screw you too.” He says with a bite of a smile in his voice, and when he leaves the room to collect his homework, he swears he can hear Lorelai grumbling affectionately, something about her father and him being the same person in different fonts.

He’d give his life up for her. Blanket, bed, free time and probably his own health aren’t that much.