#parenthetically

Scientists trick body’s microorganism response to combat cancer

The new treatment is termed AN RNA immunizing agent- it works rather like a preventive vaccine by mimicking AN infective agent.

German researchers have given a warm methodology of offensive cancer, concealed virus impersonators into the shape to unleash AN anti-tumour immune offensive.

Tested in barely 3 individuals up to now, the treatment claims to be the most recent advance in therapy, that…

Putting it under a cut because WORDS SO MANY WORDS. o.e

edgarnight asked you: 2011-09-14 00:33

(shamelessly fluffy Tiberius is shamelessly fluffy) Tibmund, for some reason or another, must Paint Things. Drippy, messy hijinks ensue. ^_^

MURALS MURALS EVERYWHERE~

—

Edmund isn't entirely sure how he got roped into this. (Glances at his paint-speckled companion—okay, so he is sure, but it's not the point.) He's not even particularly good. (Edgar is, though, even if she does get frustrated at herself every time a line isn't perfectly straight.) If she'd asked him to stab the thing, that would have been much easier. (Why she'd even asked for his help was more than a little beyond him—she was doing most of the work.)

He's scowling at the mess in front of him when he feels something cold and distinctly wet dabbing at his nose. Yelping a little in surprise, he jerks back, dragging the cold wet thing across his cheek in the process.

She's sniggering at him, wiping her blue-tinted fingers across her worn and already considerably stained shirt. Edmund touches the streak on his face, looks at his hand—blue.

"Ohh, you—"

Edgar squeaks a negative that is half-giggle and tries to dodge him, but he's just the tiniest bit faster than she is. He lunges at the container of paint that started the skirmish, but he knocks into her—or maybe she's just startled—and it drops, splashing a little.

Change of plan, then. Edmund doesn't have time to fetch it or any of the other colours—his arms ended up somewhere around her waist, but the grip is haphazard and he knows it can't hold her if she's determined to win—but his nose is still wet, so he pulls her closer and presses it against her cheek. Giddy triumph pulls a haze over his mind and he moves, victoriously smudging the paint over her face.

She was trying to stab him with her brush, but after a moment she goes suddenly, completely still. He's confused for a moment, concerned (what did he do), but then...

...then there is awareness, everything blooming into a painfully intense kind of clarity, and he wants to say something but he isn't sure how to form the words.

"...sorry," Edmund manages. Nervously, he loosens his grip.

She stays. "It's," she says. "Um," she says. She blinks and swallows and doesn't do much of anything else, but she stays, and it's more than he was expecting.

He moves, his nose bumping against her cheek again; he tries to make it so that it seems like he's mostly just trying to get the rest of the paint on her, but then Edgar closes her eyes and his attempted restoration of normality turns into gently affectionate nuzzling far sooner than he'd intended.

(He can feel her breathing—tiny, patternless exhalations against his face—and he wonders.)

She turns a little and he matches it and if his lips touch the corner of her mouth it isn't anything, really except it is. Edgar doesn't seem to mind it and he's unsure she even noticed, but—no, she would.

She would also make it very, very clear if she disapproved of anything he did.

(but if)

Edmund isn't sure what thought drives him to do so—isn't even sure if there's a thought left in his head—but he pulls back, just a little. Goes a little bit cross-eyed as he glances at her mouth, then at her eyes; he tries to ascertain her expression, but the best adjective he can think of is "dazed" and the worst is "blank", so that doesn't really help.

Well, he thinks, you've had worse ideas.

He kisses her. There's a tiny flicker of relief that she doesn't immediately murder him with a paintbrush, but then her lips move almost imperceptibly against his and his thoughts are dashed into an incoherent kind of happiness.

He didn't think to turn his face, so his nose ended up kind of smashed against hers. It's clumsy and ungainly and absolutely wonderful and he—

—sudden, damp chill on his neck; Edmund instinctively flinches, twitching away from her and grabbing at whatever's touching him. Edgar snickers again and removes her paintbrush from his skin.