Anonpencil Writes Sick: You Give Me Fever (Oneshit)

>It's been a long time since you've been this sick, and it seems you've actually forgotten how to deal with it. First you let yourself get dehydrated by drinking whisky instead of water. I mean, sure, the whisky helped with the aching in your head, but at this point you're pissing brown, and the skin on your hands may actually be sagging. At least the whisky tasted nice. Then, you stayed up late because you were too hot to sleep, and all that pain cured by mild alcoholism came rushing back. Then you insisted to both Twilight and Spike that you were fine and didn't need to take any medicine. You even coughed on Spike, just to make the point. You're pretty sure he's laid up in bed now too. Misery loves company, they always say, and rest assured, you are miserable.
>You haven't measured your fever in a while, but by the fact that you're seeing flickering white splotches in the corners of your vision, and that the bedside lamp looks like its doing a lambada with your empty water glass, you're pretty sure it's very high. You can barely hold consciousness for more than an hour, and whenever you feel like you're getting better, you blink, and suddenly there's crusted drool caked on your lips and the side of your face, and your mouth tastes like rotten fruit.
>In fact... it actually feels like you might be getting worse.
>At this moment, in this brief bout of lucidity, small warning flags suddenly perk up. You feel so hot, like your skin is actually melting off of you.Your mouth is rough all around the inside, like a flea-bitten bald patch on a dog. You can't breathe right, your vision keeps clouding. This is bad. Very bad. Your fever is spiking. You could be in real danger!
>You open your mouth to call out, but find your voice has dried up too. You wheeze like a broken squeak toy, and try to straighten up in your bed, but you instantly fall back onto the mattress, too weak to budge. You're helpless, at the mercy of your fever. If it gets too much worse... you could...
>You swallow hard, and you're pretty sure your throat makes a creaking noise.
>Oh no.
>You feel a wave of darkness coming on, a black shadow creeping into the backs of your eyes. You're going to pass out again! Maybe you should write down an SOS, try to toss a pencil into the hall to get attention, slap that lamp before it gets too fresh with your water glass, something!
>But it's too late.
>Your sight fades.
>You're gone.

	~*~

>When you open your eyes again, everything is still cloudy. You can barely even feel your own body. But you do feel something nice. Something cool on your forehead. And in the cotton-muted sounds floating around your head, you hear an almost musical sound, like a mother singing to a child. You open your mouth to call out to the strange sound, and find that your voice has returned. Your throat feels less scratchy, less dry.
"Hey..." you burble out.
>The sound stops, and you hear a distant shushing.
"Easy now," you hear the sound becoming words. "You've had a long, rough night. But you're out of the woods now. A few remedies, traditional medicine, a little magic, and your fever is dropping considerably. So just rest up. You'll be all better soon."
>You try your best to focus, and your eyes clear enough to make out...
>...Twilight?
>Sure enough, you see Twilight bent over your bedside, swabbing a cool cloth across your forehead with one hoof. You blink, but this is no hallucination, no trick of the light. She's really there, taking care of you. You can see a bowl by the bed with used up rags, and several bottles of pills on your nightstand. And... did she say it had been a long night? Has she been up with you all this time?
>Is... is Twilight taking care of you?
"Twilight?" you say, voice still shaky.
>She stops moving the cloth, then smiles slowly and nods.
"Yeah," she says gently. "And don't scare me like that again, okay? You've got to take better care of yourself, Anon. I can't always be here to whip you into shape, you know. Besides, if you went away, who else would I torment every day?"
>Somewhere deep in your fever-sick brain and heart, you're touched. Her face shows real concern, real relief that you're going to be okay, you're sure of it. She may be a crazy psycho bitch, but she seems to legitimately care about you. Through all your ups and downs, through all this weird shit she says and does... you being sick really scared her. Really worried her.
>Twilight cares about you. In spite of yourself, you find yourself smiling.
"Why Twilight, I never knew you had such a good bedside manner."
>She laughs lightly.
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
"Well, maybe I should learn."
>You both laugh this time. You're so wrapped up in a contented feeling of warmth that you almost are able to hold off the creeping thought that enters your mind. But as it grows, your laughter fades on your lips. At last, you feel overwhelmed with that one, simple question, and you feel a sudden need to ask it.
"Twilight, why do you have your experiment clipboard with you?"
>Her smile doesn't fade as she kicks the thing under your bed.
"Oh, no reason."
"Did you... did you infect me with something?"
"Oh please, does that really sound like something I would do?"
You start to protest that yes, it does, when you shift slightly and notice something strange. Your dick... it feels soft, as in no erection soft, but also hard... on the inside. Like it's been made rigid artificially. And now that you think about it... hey that hurts. That... that really hurts! It feels unnatural down there, as if someone stuffed something hard up your peehole and...
"Twilight, did you give me a fucking catheter??"
"Well you were pissing the bed, I had to figure out how to stream it away from the sheets! They were getting pretty soaked."
"WHAT THE FUCK?" you cry, as you reach for your dick, but wince at the sensation you feel at touching your much-abused privates. "I didn't give you permission to stick anything up my dick! We talked about this!"
"But-"
"And no rectal stuff either!" you snap, before she can get any ideas. "What made you think you could do something like this to me and get away with it!?"
"It's okay, I can fix it!" she says triumphantly, reaching down under the blanket between your legs. "On the count of three! One..."
"Wait, what are you doing on three?
"Two..."
"W-wait, you don't mean-"
"THREE!" She yanks hard.
>Your screams can be heard all the way to Canterlot.

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