Maybe It Wasn't Such A Good Idea (Flash comics, Trickster/Pied Piper)

[Tad Strange]

This is my first time actually writing any kind of sneeze-fic, so hopefully it's decent.  I'm afraid the first part is all set-up, but the sneezing will start soon.  This deals with the Trickster/James Jesse and Pied Piper/Hartley Rathaway from the Flash comics, in the pre-New 52 continuity.  If you're only familiar with the characters from the CW show, they're a bit different in the comics.  Hartley had a long criminal career before reforming to become an activist for the poor and homeless, and becoming good friends with the Wally West version of Flash.  James is a former circus acrobat who invented shoes that let him walk on air, and naturally turned to crime (like you do).  Comics James is both much younger and much nicer than his CW counterpart - he's mostly a thief/con-man who has made a few attempts at reforming, and would never kill people for fun.  He and Hartley were friends in the comics, but never dated (not to mention that James is sadly dead in the comics), so this story will have to be an AU.

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It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  Just a little bit of petty larceny (well, given the value of those jewels, it was more like grand larceny, but no need to worry about the details) to give himself a taste of deliciously illegal adrenaline high, and establish that he still “had it.”  James Jesse was still the Trickster, and he could still easily outwit the blockheads that served as Central City’s poor excuse for a police force.

Besides, James had been so very good lately.  Ever since his decision to retire from crime, he’d kept himself mostly on the straight and narrow, although the word “straight” maybe wasn’t entirely appropriate for a man who lived with his boyfriend.  Moving in with Hartley had helped a lot, since the former Pied Piper had turned do-gooder with a zeal that James found somewhere between annoying and endearing.  So, for Hartley’s sake, James had given up clever heists and exciting roof-top chases with the Flash.  He’d gotten a job like an actual responsible citizen, working with the FBI to help track down con artists like himself, and test security systems for exploitable holes.  He’d donated part of his loot stash (yes, he still had a loot stash, because being good didn’t have to mean being poor, right?) to help Hartley establish a new community center and fund after-school programs.  He even volunteered occasionally at the homeless shelter where Hartley spent most of his time, putting on little magic shows for the kids.  That was actually kind of fun.  James liked kids, they were an appreciative audience for his tricks, and they didn’t let silly adult concepts like “dignity” stop them from enjoying things whole-heartedly. 

It wasn’t a bad life, overall.  He got to sleep with a sexy musician, and between his loot and Hartley’s inherited wealth, they could live very comfortably.  But every now and then this irritable restlessness flared up in the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.  There were days that dragged along like a sack of wet cement, when he solved cases so easily he was actually angry at the criminals for not living up to his standards, when all the colors around him faded to gray.  And there was that uniquely bureaucratic form of torture known as paperwork – FBI agents couldn’t even sneeze without filling out Form 7-B in triplicate.  James could not stand the boredom sometimes.  He needed stimulation and challenge and danger, and garish bright colors, like the stripes that had once adorned his rather loud (but stylish!) Trickster costume.

And then, James had seen the museum exhibit, practically begging him to steal it.  The Macky collection, a set of jewelry that had belonged to some obscure duchess a few hundred years ago, so opulent and gaudy that sarcastic bloggers were calling it the Tacky Collection.  It was bright and extravagant and tasteless – it was meant for him.  And the museum’s security measures were so ridiculously lax – an easily disarmed alarm system, a few poorly trained guards.  James had to steal it, just to teach them a lesson about proper security.  It was his civic duty, right?  Hartley would not approve, of course, but Hartley had been taking sleep aids lately to deal with a recent bout of nightmares.  He’d snooze right through James’ late-night heist. 

The more pressing problem was that James’ former criminal identity was well-known, both by his FBI colleagues and the Flash.  But James had a brilliant plan to deal with that.  He wouldn’t rob the museum as James Jesse, the Trickster, he’d rob the museum as Guy Randomdude, an anonymous Trickster copycat.  There had been a few losers attempting to take on his mantle after he retired, but none had any staying power (except for that little punk Axel Walker, who’d actually stolen his old gear).  James would wear a poorly-sewn, slightly off-color version of his usual costume, with a cape that looked like it belonged on a curtain rod.  He wouldn’t bring any of his usual gadgets, although going without his air-walking shoes made him feel a tad vulnerable.  (It was better that way, since the FBI would be way too interested in the case if they thought a copycat had some of his dangerous toys.)  He’d be a cheap knock-off Trickster.  The Trixter, available in bargain bins everywhere!  Everyone knew James Jesse took pride in his work.  No one would believe that this shoddy imitation could possibly be the real Trickster.

The heist itself went off without a hitch.  James had chosen a night when he knew from his underground sources that Weather Wizard was planning some kind of major bank job, and would keep Flash too busy to notice his little museum theft.  James was riding the adrenaline high, even during the long, freezing slog through the rain (he cursed Weather Wizard silently) to his hiding spot where he’d stashed a change of clothes.  He’d forgotten how much longer it took to actually walk on the ground, as opposed to his usual method of skipping through the air with his special shoes.  The rain soaked completely into his flimsy “Trixter” costume, and the cold air was making him sniffle.  He blew his nose on a sleeve of the cheap costume after changing out of it, since he was tossing it right into the incinerator.  At least he’d included a hooded jacket with his street clothes; he pulled the hood up for the walk back to the condo he shared with Hartley, although it didn’t stop him from shivering. 

Hartley was still dead to the world when James got back, mouth hanging slightly open, drooling onto the pillow in a way that made James smile fondly.  He tossed his clothing into the dryer and jumped into a hot shower to wash out the brown high-lights he’d added to his roots, to make his naturally blond hair look like a bad dye-job.  There was a childish glee bubbling up inside his chest, and he smothered giggles under his hand.  He’d done it.  He’d really gotten away with it.  It had been so long since he’d gotten to have this special kind of illegal fun.  He’d better get it all out of his system now, though, so that he could keep up a poker face in front of Hartley tomorrow, when the heist made the papers.

It wasn’t until he slid into bed next to Hartley that James started to feel bad.  Not physically bad, although the late-night exertions had left him achy and a bit chilled, even after the shower.  Looking at Hartley breathing peacefully in the moonlight, with his red-brown hair and adorable freckles, James felt some of his excitement turn sour in his stomach.  Hartley would be angry if he knew.  But what Hartley didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, right?  It was just a little heist, with some old bat’s jewelry that no one really cared about.  He might not even keep all of it, maybe he’d leave pieces around the city for the Flash to find and return, like a treasure hunt.  Or maybe he’d use it to finance major improvements at the homeless shelter, helping the poor and downtrodden like Hartley always wanted.  That wouldn’t be so bad, right?  But still, as James snuggled up next to his boyfriend, he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable truth that the next morning he would have to lie to him.

So, when James woke up the next morning with a sore throat that felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper, his first thought was, “Yeah, I probably deserve this.”

[Tad Strange]

Part 2

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Hartley was already up and showering when James opened his eyes, wincing at the spike of pain when he swallowed.  It was Saturday, which meant James didn’t have to show up at the office, but Hartley usually went in to the shelter for a few hours in the late morning.

“I just need a drink of water, right?  That’s all.  This is not what I think it is,” James muttered quietly, trying to brush off the raw feeling in his throat.  Or coffee.  Coffee would sort him right out.  The heavy feeling in his limbs and sudden, uncontrollable shudder as he threw off the blankets suggested otherwise.  So did the prickle of irritation in his nose, which was starting to run freely.

“Awww, c’mon…” James whined quietly to himself.  “This is the lah…eh….l-last th-thing I…hah….need….eh…heh...eh-SHOO!”  James didn’t have a particularly loud or powerful sneeze, but they tended to build up dramatically, with several seconds of uncontrollable breath hitching.  Hartley said it was clearly his showman’s nature to make a big production out of everything.  James didn’t really mind, except when they came at inopportune times.  Like when they served as proof that he had caught a cold running around in the rain.  Stealing things.  

“No, no, no,” James growled as he headed into the kitchen, refusing to acknowledge the brief dizzy spell that suggested he was probably running a fever.  “I r-reject this rea…ah….reality and sub…substitute my…eh-heh…my own….hah-chew!”  He wondered how to play this when Hartley got out of the shower.  Denying probably wouldn’t do any good.  Hartley had a streak of mother hen in him, he would notice immediately.  Maybe milking it for sympathy was the best defense.  Who could possibly suspect James of committing theft when he was sick?  Obviously he’d just picked up some bug at the office, and meanwhile, there was this fake “Trixter” running around besmirching the name of a good honest citizen like himself.  James practiced his sad puppy eyes in the hall mirror, and was annoyed to see how flushed and haggard he looked.  Maybe good for sympathy points, but not very attractive.

When Hartley emerged from the shower, James had opted for sitting at the table with coffee and a glass of juice, frowning at the morning paper.  Weather Wizard had apparently spent the better part of the night shooting lightning bolts at Flash and attempting to flood the city before the speedster finally managed to take him out.  That naturally took up most of the front page, although his own heist got a little corner section. 

“New Copycat Trickster?” read the rather unimaginative headline.  James would’ve gone with, “Old Tricks, New Dog?”  But it was good to see that the press was buying the ruse.

“Have you seen this?” James asked Hartley, as the musician pulled up a chair at the breakfast table.

“Mmm….yes.  I also got a call from the police this morning.  While you were asleep.”  Hartley’s expression was bland and unreadable.  James tried not to flinch.  That was not being a smooth con-man.

“Oh?”

“Don’t worry, I assured them that you spent the night cuddled up next to me.  Since you’re such a dedicated boyfriend.  And you’re reformed now.  Right?”  Hartley’s tone was dangerously icy.  It was the “James, bringing a whoopee-cushion to the Central City Orchestra’s performance of Beethoven’s 9th was not appropriate” tone.

“Yeah, Hart, of course I am,” James said, trying to ignore the tickle in the back of his nose that promised another sneeze.  “You think I like it when some jerk tries to piggyback on my legacy?  This guy couldn’t even get the costume right.”

“It does look like a pretty shoddy job,” Hartley acknowledged, pulling the paper over to glance at the picture.  James was quietly grateful that the newspaper photo was only a distant shot of him, blurred by last night’s rain.  “But still, he got away with the jewels, didn’t he.  He can’t be that incompetent, even for a copycat.”  Hartley starred across the table at James, fingers steepled in front of him.

“Only b-because Flash was…heh…b-busy,” James suggested.  “I’m sure he can nab the guy today.  Other…hah….otherwise the bureau will be all over m-me to solve…eh-shoo!”  The sneeze forced itself out.  James grimaced and dabbed at his nose with a napkin, trying not to think about the phone call he’d soon be getting from his bosses at the FBI.  Of course they’d expect him to track down a Trickster copycat….it was one of those pesky consequences he usually didn’t think about when he was carried away with a heist idea.

“Poor you,” Hartley said, not sounding particularly sympathetic.  “Getting sick?”

“Must be something going around at the office,” James said.

“Mmmm….or maybe you were out in the freezing rain last night.

“Hartley, c’mon, I-“

“Giovanni Giuseppe!”  Hartley’s voice was like steel, his normally warm blue eyes narrowed in anger.  James knew he was in trouble when Hartley called him by his real name, which gave James flashbacks of his childhood in the circus - hanging by his knees on a trapeze high above the sawdust while his father shouted at him in Italian.  Even thinking about it made his head spin – or maybe that was the fever.

“Where were you last night?” Hartley continued.

“In our bed.  Right next to –“

“Don’t!” Hartley snapped, cutting him off.  “I woke up last night, and you weren’t there.  I was too groggy from the sleep meds to actually go out and find you, but you weren’t there.  Don’t even try to say you were just in the bathroom.  I couldn’t hear you anywhere in the apartment.”

Crap.  James had not expected this.  Hartley’s meds usually kept him in Sleeping Beauty mode all night.

“I was just…uh…”  Running to the corner store?  Out for a walk in the rain?  Kidnapped by ninjas?  All things were possibly in the exciting lives of two ex-criminals.  “…streaking.  Yes.  Sorry, I should have told you.  I just had the urge to do something crazy – you know I get like that sometimes.  So I just took my clothes off and ran naked through the neighborhood!  You should’ve seen the look I got from those nuns at the bus-stop, although I think the real question is what nuns were doing at the bus-stop at 3 AM.  Those ladies were probably up to something – “

“James, did you do this?”  Hartley said, holding up the paper.  He was starting to sound more anguished than angry, in a way that tore at James’ heart.  “Please don’t lie.  Not to me.”

James swallowed, feeling certain that the tightness in his throat was due to more than just his cold.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, it was supposed to be fun, just simple harmless (illegal) fun.  People (boyfriends) weren’t supposed to get hurt.  This was the part James never managed to visualize when he was planning his capers.

“Hart, I…it was just….”

“Yes or no.”

“Yes,” James sighed.  Hartley tossed the paper down angrily on the table, and stalked into the kitchen.

“Aww, Hartley, don’t be mad, it was just –“ James began coughing and had to pause to catch his breath.

“Just what?  Just going behind my back?  Just grand theft?  Just something that could get you thrown in jail for God knows how many years?  They won’t go easy on you, James, we’ve both got mile-long rap sheets, you know that –“   

“I know, I know,” James broke in.  “That’s why I took precautions, okay?  Even the press thinks it was a copycat.”

“Why did you do it in the first place?”  Hartley demanded.  “Those jewels weren’t worth that much, and it’s not like we’re hurting for money.  It can’t be about glory, since you’re giving the credit to some made-up amateur.”

“I was……was……bored.”  James finished lamely.  He should have been able to sweet talk his way out of this, he was usually so good at that.  But it was different with Hartley.  James actually cared about what Hartley thought of him, and it left him bare and vulnerable.

“Bored?  Really?  You know what’s boring, James?  Prison.  That’s boring.”

“I mean I….I just get restless sometimes, Hartley, I miss the thrill.  You know how it is, you were a Rogue, too.  Don’t tell me you never miss it.  And it’s not like that jewelry exhibit was super-important, it was getting terrible reviews anyway…”  James found himself babbling now, just wanting more than anything to make his boyfriend Not Angry anymore.  Clearly the fever was messing with his head.

“That’s not the point,” Hartley pressed.  “It doesn’t matter whether the exhibit was important, it was still stealing.  What did you even do with the jewels?  You’d better not have brought stolen goods into this condo, James.”

“I didn’t, Heh….Hart, I’m not…hah…not that stupid,” James assured, pausing to smother another sneeze against his sleeve.  “I’ve got ‘em stashed somewhere.”

“Maybe we can still fix this if we give them back……”  Hartley mused, then trailed off, his head cocked slightly.  Clearly he was picking up something on his super-powered hearing aids.  James just hoped it wasn’t police sirens headed their way.

[Tad Strange]

Part 3

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There was a knock at the door.  It was a little too fast, like someone who was used to moving at light-speed was trying to slow his movements.  James and Hartley exchanged a look.  They both knew that knock quite well.  James sighed.  He supposed this confrontation was inevitable as well.

“Hello, Flash,” said Hartley, opening the door.  There was a blur of motion that swept past them through the condo, then Flash was back in the living room, looking at them appraisingly and holding out a bag.

“Morning, gentlemen.  I brought chocolate croissants.”  Only a super-nice hero like Wally West would bring breakfast pastries as a peace offering when he came to search the apartment of two former criminals.  Of course, Wally had enjoyed a tentative friendship with the two ex-Rogues since their reformation, especially with Hartley, who was more pro-active at the whole “good deeds” thing.  James couldn’t entirely trust a man who had punched him in the face so many times in the past, but he supposed he liked Wally well enough – certainly enough that he kept his mouth shut about Flash’s secret identity, rather than selling the name for millions on the black market.     

“The jewels aren’t here, Wally,” Hartley said, taking the bag and pulling out a croissant. 

“Never said they were,”  Flash said easily, although he gave James a searching look.  “You sick?”

“No-“ James began, but started to cough.  “Okay, yes.  I guess that’s pretty obvious, right.  I probably got something at the office.”

“Right, at the office.  Not running around in the rain last night.  Right?”  Wally’s eyes narrowed.

“Of course not!  What do you take me for?”  James threw an offended hand against his chest, trying to ignore Hartley looking daggers at him.

“A long-time thief and con-man who sometimes finds it very hard to resist temptation,” Flash responded.  James had to admit that was a fairly accurate assessment. 

“Sir, you wound me,” James quipped, taking a croissant and heading over the couch so that he could drape himself across it like an invalid.  Even if he couldn’t get anything past Hartley, at least he could use this cold to milk sympathy out of disgustingly nice heroes like Wally.  He really was starting to feel terrible.

“Even if I was stupid enough to pull a Trickster heist in this city, where everybody knows my name, why would I…huh…hah…why would I – heh-choo!  Why would I wear such a cheap-looking knock-off of my own costume?  Really, that guy looks terrible.  An absolute disgrace to the Trickster name.”

“Because pretending to be a Trickster copycat would be a brilliant smoke-screen for a real Trickster heist,” Flash responded.  James wasn’t going to let himself get caught by the word “brilliant.”  Appealing to his ego wouldn’t get Flash any traction.

“Oh, I don’t know, doesn’t sound very smart to me,” Hartley said bitterly, still glaring at James.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Wally,” James said.  “I’d be risking a lot for one dinky little heist.  This was just a copycat, plain and simple.  And not a very good one.”

“Was he here last night?”  Flash suddenly turned to Hartley.  “All night?”  Hartley paused for a long moment, looking past Wally at James, his expression unreadable.  James gave him a tentative, apologetic smile, silently begging, “Please don’t sell your wonderful boyfriend up the river, Hartley, I will give you a million backrubs and make that ravioli you like so much."

“He was here.  All night,” Hartley said firmly, folding his arms.

“You sure?”

“Yes, absolutely.”  James flashed Hartley a brilliant grin, which faded quickly as Hartley glared at him.

“Okay then,” Flash conceded, not sounding particularly convinced.  “We’re dealing with a….copycat.”

“Yes, that is most definitely what we’re dealing with,” James asserted.  “And it wou – heh!  Wouldn’t…ah….b-be the first…hah…..heh-shoo!  Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“No…” Flash conceded.  “Axel Walker’s still in prison, though.  And that guy was definitely taller than Walker.”

Yeah, “that guy” had been about James’s height…and weight…and everything.

“So….if this guy is following in your footsteps, you can help me figure out his tactics, right James?” Flash continued.  “You can tell me how he operates and what he’s thinking.  Right?”

“Well, it’s hard to fathom the mind of a cheap amateur,” James said imperiously, trying to look dignified while blowing his nose into a tissue.  “These people try to copy my style, but they don’t really get me, you know.”

“Yes, because a man in clashing stripes who throws exploding teddy bears is such a sophisticated criminal,” Hartley sniped. 

“Was a sophisticated criminal.  Ex-criminal,” James insisted, giving Hartley a glare.  Certain people who used to run around in green polka-dotted tunics and leggings calling themselves “The Pied Piper” had no business criticizing the Trickster’s sense of style.  Even if Hartley’s legs always looked really good in tights.  

“If you’d been the one pulling this heist, you know, just speaking hypothetically,” Flash began.  “Where would you have hidden the jewels?”  

“But I wasn’t the one pulling this heist!”  

“Yes, of course,” Flash said, with a slight eye-roll.  “I’m just trying to come up with some ideas here.  It’s reasonable to think that a….’copy-cat’ might use some of your old hiding places.  So where do you think this copy-cat might have hidden the loot?  Hypothetically.”

James winced.  Did he really have to give up the jewels after all the work he’d gone through to get them last night?  It wasn’t that he even wanted them that badly, but giving them up would mean losing the game.

“Ugh, I can’t possibly be expected to think about these things in my condition!  I’m so very ill!”  James flopped back dramatically against the couch with the back of his hand pressed against his forehead, like a suffering heroine in a black-and-white movie.  He stage-coughed into his hand, only to have it turn into a real coughing fit.  Hartley brought his glass of orange juice over and pressed it into his hands.

“Here, drink,” Hartley murmured to him.  “Then talk.  You know it’s the only way out of this.”  James took a long time draining the glass, considering his options.

“The museum just wants the stolen jewels back,” Wally continued.  “I know that’s my main priority, too.  If we can retrieve those, I’m not really that interested in this ‘copycat.’  As long as he keeps his head down and never does something like this again, I’m not gonna try that hard to bring him in.  I’ve got far worse criminals out there to deal with.”

“So where do you think the jewels are, James?” Hartley prompted, nudging him.  “Hypothetically.  If you had to make an educated guess.”  James heaved a sigh.  He supposed he wasn’t going to win this game after all.  Perhaps staying out of jail and appeasing his angry boyfriend would at least make it a tie.

“I suppose if I had to guess….if I had pulled that heist – and of course, I didn’t – but if I’d done it, I probably would have hidden the loot someplace clever and appropriate…..like the old Wally World Amusement Park off Highway 10.  Or maybe it’s in one of the crates at Zucco’s Toy warehouse down on 5^th and 7^th.  Or maybe….maybe it’s at that candy factory on Rollins Ave that closed down last month.  You know, they left a lot of the old inventory just sitting around, since the company’s going through bankruptcy.  I bet a Trickster copycat might have taken the stolen jewels and slipped them into one of the industrial-sized barrels of taffy.  Just a guess.”

“Taffy?” Flash and Hartley both looked concerned.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure the copycat would have put the jewels inside a tightly-sealed bag.  They’ll be fine.  I’m guessing."

“Right.”  Flash zipped out of the condo.  Hartley gave James’s hand a squeeze.

“Are you heh…happy now?”  James sulked, wrinkling his nose as he felt a tickle flare up.

“You’re not out of the doghouse yet, James Jesse,” Hartley said.  “But I’m glad you’re not going to jail today.”

“Yeah, m-me too….heh…hah….eh-tchew!”  James turned his face into his elbow to keep the spray away from Hartley.  “Don’t sit so close, Hart, I’m sick and contagious.”

“Good advice,” Hartley said, getting up off the sofa.  He brought James coffee, a gesture which James hoped meant Hartley was starting to forgive him.

There was another blur of speed, and suddenly Flash was back, holding a sticky bag, his uniform covered in bits of neon pink, orange and green taffy.  James couldn’t suppress a grin.  There had been about 17 barrels of the stuff that Wally would have had to root around in.

“Okay, it’s all there,” Flash confirmed.  “I’m taking this back to the museum.  Thanks for the assistance, gentleman.  James, if I were you, I’d stay on the couch for a while, and avoid any more little late-night adventures.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Flash.”

“James, c’mon.  Let’s be real here.  I appreciate that you’re trying.  I honestly do.  But you can’t do this again, okay?  If you keep pulling jobs like this, I’ll have to take you in.  And I don’t want to take you in.  Hartley would never speak to me again if I threw you back in prison.”  Flash’s arms were crossed, but there was an exasperated kindness in his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll never speak to him again if he goes back to prison pulling stupid crap like this,” Hartley said.

“Haaaaart…..” James’ voice was starting to get hoarse, making his whine extra pitiful.  He coughed again.

“I really don’t want that to happen, okay?”  Wally said quickly, obviously not wanting to be stuck in the middle of an ex-Rogues domestic dispute any longer than necessary.  “You guys have both been doing great, and you seem really happy together…er…most of time.  Just….find another way to blow off steam, okay?  Go play paintball or laser tag or something.  Or do backflips in the park if you really want attention.  Or just troll on the internet, like most people do.  Anyway, get some rest, and stay out of trouble.  Keep him on a leash, Hartley.  Literally, if you have to.”  And then the speedster was gone, leaving two semi-reformed criminals and an awkward silence.

[Tad Strange]

Part 4

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Hartley sat at the breakfast table, finishing his coffee.  James let out yet another sneeze, and figured that was his cue to speak.

“Hartley.”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you still mad?”  Hartley turned and gave him a long look.

“Yes, James, I’m still mad,” he said finally.  “You lied to me, and you almost got yourself serious trouble.”

“How many hours do I need to volunteer at the homeless shelter to make you not mad?”

“This isn’t something you can bribe your way out of, James!  It’s…look, I don’t want to talk about it right now.  I’ve got work.  We’re in the middle of an outreach campaign, so don’t expect me back until the evening.  I imagine you can take care of yourself until then.

Despite his anger, Hartley did his boyfriend duty before heading out to the shelter, leaving James on the couch surrounded by Nyquil, throat lozenges, tissues, and orange juice.  A few of Hartley’s horde of pet rats, which numbered somewhere between 10 and 30 (James could never keep count, although Hartley knew exactly) attempted to perch on him, but were quickly frightened away by James’s constant coughing.  Snuggled into a nest of blankets and pillows, James spent the late morning flipping channels, trying to find something interesting enough to make him forget the guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach.  He settled for watching Gordon Ramsay shout at incompetent line chefs on Hell’s Kitchen.  He also fielded the expected call from his office at the FBI.  “Yes, I heard about the heist…..no, it wasn’t me…..so sorry, I’m just too sick (exaggerated cough!) to come in today….don’t worry, Flash found the stolen goods….yes, I’ll follow up, but I’m sure we won’t be hearing from that fake Trickster again any time soon….yes, I’m quite sure….”

TV didn’t do much to distract him from the cold, which was making itself known with increasing severity.  He couldn’t seem to stop coughing, continually irritating his raw throat.  He had the opposite problem with his nose – after all the sneezing he’d done earlier that morning, it seemed to be on strike.  It prickled with constant irritation, but never seemed to work its way up to an actual sneeze.  Occasionally he’d reach the point where his breath started to hitch, but it would die away, leaving him sniffling and frustrated, dabbing at his nose with tissues.  He was tempted to go find the Sneezing Powder he’d used before on capers, just to finally force some sneezes out and get it over with, but that would mean actually getting up, and the couch was so warm and cosy.  Fever had left him aching and shivering with chills, not exactly peak condition to go dig through his old stuff.  So he just lay there, snickering at the memory of using the powder on Flash during a bank robbery.  A speedster having a super-speed sneezing fit was one of the more hilarious things he’d seen.  Wally had given him a stern warning later to never use that stuff on Superman – the force would probably blast him into the next city.  Slipping hazily from one memory to the next, James drifted off to sleep, with the sound of Gordon Ramsay screaming “It’s raaaaaaaaaw!!!” somewhere on the edge of his consciousness.      

James started awake with another coughing fit, coming out of a dream in which he and Hartley had been competing on America’s Got Talent (as a dual acrobatic/musical act) in front of a rather stern panel made up of Simon Cowell, Gordon Ramsay and Judge Judy.  The itch was still lingering in his nose like a useless houseguest.  James rubbed at it irritably, then pulled his hand away in disgust at the wetness. 

“Ugh, why do colds have to be so gross,” he muttered as he pulled out a handful of tissues.  He pulled himself up into a sitting position, taking a moment to let a wave of dizziness pass, and saw that it was 5:30 PM.  Hartley would be home soon, and maybe he’d have calmed down a little.  Or maybe not.  James suspected they’d have to have one of their Talks, and that was difficult because it meant being serious for a long period of time.  He sniffed sadly, and felt the itch in his nose intensify to the point that it was almost painful.  He could swear his nose was actually quivering.  His breath started hitching again.

“C-C’mon,” he begged, holding a tissue in front of his face in anticipation.  “Ju…eh…j-just let it…heh…happen….ah….hah….HAH-“  The itch left him left him lingering on the brink for a moment, head tilted back and eyes fluttering, then suddenly backed down again. 

“Deh…damn it!” He swore, scrubbing at his nose furiously.  If he wasn’t going to sneeze, could it at least stop teasing him?  Was that too much to ask?  Were the Sneeze Gods punishing him for making Hartley mad?

“Fine,” James muttered.  “Maybe I don’t even want to sneeze.  Maybe I….I…heh….eh….haaaaaah….”  It died away again.  So much for reverse psychology.  He blew his nose furiously.  Perhaps if he drained all the mucus out of his face, the tickle would go away completely and then he’d be all better.  No such luck.  Apparently his nose was now a gateway to the dimension of Infinite Snot.

“I’m soooooo gross….” He groaned.  How was he supposed to charm his way back into Hartley’s good graces when his nose was red and leaking?  And he felt terrible enough that he probably wouldn’t be up to offering Hartley a more intimate “apology.”  (Being a flexible acrobat gave James some unique skills in the bedroom – at least when he was healthy).

Eventually James managed to push himself up off the couch, and clear away the mound of used tissues and lozenge wrappers.  He staggered into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea with a dollop of honey to ease his sore throat.  He was sitting at the table sipping it when Hartley came in, carrying a sack of Indian take-out.  Oh good, maybe the spices would help unblock his sinuses.

“I figured I should bring back dinner,” Hartley said.  “You’re not exactly up to cooking.”  And it was never a good idea for Hartley to cook, James charitably did not mention.  Hartley had grown up in a mansion with servants – even years later the kitchen was still a strange and mysterious place for him.

“Thanks, Hart.  Hope you had a good day,” James croaked, serving himself some of the curry.  Hartley looked up at him, his forehead creased in concern.

“You sound terrible.  Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten Indian, the spice will be hell on your throat…”

“No, this is good,” James insisted, protectively pulling the curry closer as if Hartley might snatch it away and replace it with something bland.  “I need the spice.  I’ve been so stuffed up all day, I can’t even sneh…heh….eh….hah.….can’t even sneeze.  See?” He added, as the sneeze retreated for the umpteenth time.

Hartley reached across the table to press a hand against his forehead, frowning.  James resisted the urge to grab the hand and plant a kiss on the back of it.  Hartley had lovely hands with long, graceful fingers befitting a musician.  But James still wasn’t exactly sure where they stood, and his face was a hotbed of germs and general grossness at the moment. 

“You’re pretty warm.  Take a couple of these, if you haven’t already.”  Hartley held out a bottle of Tylenol, and James obediently swallowed a couple.

“Pretty warm?  Not even going to call me ‘hot’?”  James ventured.

“Don’t push your luck.”  But Hartley gave him at least the barest hint of a smile.  Hartley mostly talked business while they ate, discussing the new programs they were developing at the shelter.  James was not quite as committed to helping the homeless of Central City, but it made Hartley happy to talk about it, so he listened dutifully, while occasionally trying (and failing) to force out the sneeze that continued to torment him.  As the two finished eating, they moved to the couch, Hartley sipping a glass of wine, James holding another mug of tea and honey with a generous splash of whiskey.  He blew his nose, but it did little to stop his constant sniffling.       

“Are you actually going to sneeze or not?”  Hartley asked, sounding amused, which James hoped was a point in his favor towards being forgiven.

“I d-don’t….hah….don’t know….” James said, feeling the tickle increase and retreat yet again.  “My nose is maintaining some kind of balance between existent and non-existent sneeze.  Like Schrodinger’s sneeze.  And it’s driving me crazy.”

“Well, you do kind of deserve it.”  Hartley did not look amused now.

“Yeah….I guess I probably do.”

There was a long pause between them, until Hartley sighed and set down his wine.

“Okay, look,” Hartley began.  “I’m….less angry now that I was this morning.  I mean, it’s not like this little incident is going to break us or anything.  But that doesn’t make it okay.  I want to be able to trust you, James.  And these days, I usually do, but it hasn’t always been easy.  You are the Trickster, after all.  When you first admitted to having feelings for me, I was honestly afraid it was a joke.”

“It wasn’t, Hartley!  I mean, you know that by know, right?  We’ve been living together for two years, that’s a pretty long commitment for a gag.”  It had taken James a very long time to work up the courage to even admit his feelings to himself, much less saying it out loud to Hartley.  It wasn’t that he was homophobic, but the criminal community (and the world at large) wasn’t always welcoming of same-sex relationships.  It had been easier to just sleep with women and ignore (deny) the obvious signs of his own bisexuality. 

“I do know that,” Hartley said.  “And like I said, I usually trust you.  But then you do things like this.”

“I just wanted to have a little…fun, Hartley.  You know, old-school fun.  The kind we don’t get to have any more.”  James could practically feel the lame excuse thud into the couch cushions.   

“It wasn’t just the stealing, okay?” Hartley said.  “I mean, I understand….even I miss the thrill of it sometimes, I admit.  But these past few weeks, I’ve been having those nightmares again, and it’s…it’s been bad okay.  I wake up, and I can’t remember what’s real anymore.  I’ve been almost afraid to sleep lately.  The only thing that made me feel safe was knowing that you were right there next to me.  And then I woke up in the middle of the night, and you weren’t there.  I was….scared.”

James winced, feeling an even stronger sense of guilt stab him in the gut.  Hartley’s nightmares had started after Mirror Master murdered his wealthy parents and framed him for the crime.  Hartley had never had a particularly good relationship with his parents.  They were always determined to “fix” whatever was “wrong” with him (wrong simply meaning “different,”), whether it was being born hearing-impaired or being born gay.  But their deaths had left Hartley deeply traumatized and guilt-ridden, even after Mirror Master had been captured and Hartley’s name cleared.  In his dreams, Hartley saw his parents die over and over.  Sometimes he killed them while they begged for mercy, sometimes Mirror Master killed them while Hartley struggled to reach them in time.  Sometimes the dream changed victims and Hartley had to watch Wally and Linda die.  Or James.  When Hartley woke up in the middle of the night, James would simply hold him until the shuddering stopped, murmuring reassurances – no, you didn’t do it, Hart, it’s over now, they caught him, you’re safe.  James generally maintained a neutral, or even off-the-record friendly relationship with most of the Rogues, but if he ever saw Evan McCullough outside of a prison cell again, he’d break every bone in the man’s body.

Hartley had needed him last night, and he’d been off irresponsibly risking his freedom to steal things that he didn’t even really want.  He’d really thought that the sleep aids would keep the nightmares away, but he’d been wrong.  That was really the main thing that mattered more than anything.  James had never felt much remorse for his crimes (hey, he avoided killing and mostly stole only from those who could afford it), and he honestly didn’t give a damn about a museum missing one inconsequential jewelry exhibit.  Like there weren’t hundreds of other art pieces for pretentious snobs to wax poetic about.  But he’d hurt Hartley.  That mattered.

“Hart, I didn’t realize.  Honestly, I thought the sleep medicine was helping.  I’m sorry, I should have been here for you.”     

“It’s not even just about me, James,” Hartley continued.  “It’s about consequences.  We can’t live our old lives anymore.  Imagine what would have happened if you’d gotten caught.  Or if Wally hadn’t been so lenient.  You might have gone to jail, James, all over some stupid heist.  You know how lucky we are.  Most Rogues wind up in jail, or dead, on stuck on Suicide Squad.  We got to retire, and we don’t even have to hide our identities, even after everything we’ve done.  I love our lives together, James.  I love you, even though you’re a frustrating, irresponsible moron sometimes.  I can’t lose you.” 

“Hartley, I’m really –“  Sorry, was the next word James was going to say.  But then, without any kind of build-up or warning, the massive sneeze that had been teasing James all afternoon exploded out of him.  So instead, what he said was: “HAH-CHOOOO!”  He threw his hands up, with the honed reflexes of an acrobat and juggler helping him block some of the spray.  But probably not all of it.  He slowly lowered his hands, groaning inwardly at the dampness he saw on Hartley’s shirt.

“Ugh, Hart, I – Hatchew!”  James burst out again as the itch spiked in his nose again.  “I’m ruh…really s-sorry about…eh…etchoo!  Atchew!  Hah-choo!”  The fit went on for about a minute, James just helplessly giving in and holding his hands over his face.  It was like all his potential sneezes had saved themselves up, just to ruin his Very Serious Conversation with his boyfriend.  His nose had a sense of humor.  How appropriate for the Trickster.  James kept his hands up as the fit died down, with the persistent itch finally fading away for the moment.  He might have whimpered slightly, not that he’d admit to it.  He didn’t dare show his face to Hartley.  Then he heard a soft chuckle.  He peaked through his fingers, to see Hartley grinning.

“That’s impressive comic timing you have, James.  You’ll really do anything to get out of a sincere expression of feelings, won’t you?”  Hartley’s face had shifted into that “Amused in Spite of Myself” expression that James knew so well.

“Hartley, I’m really, really sorry,” James said, finally managing to finish a sentence.

“About the heist, or about this?” Hartley held up his damp shirt. 

“Both.  But mostly the heist.  I…..I wasn’t thinking.  Well, I was thinking, but not about the right things.  Not about the consequences, and not about what it meant to leave you alone like that.  I’m an idiot.”  James punctuated the statement with another sneeze that he stifled against his hand, making a “Hixngh!” sound.  Hartley pulled his hand down, and handed him a tissue.

“Don’t stifle, it’s not good for you.  Just blow.”  James blew his nose obediently, and realized that Hartley had slid an arm around his shoulder.

“Are we okay?”  James asked.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” Hartley said, pulling James in to rest against his chest, and kissing the top of his head.  “I can’t stay mad when you’re sick like this.  You are going to spend a lot of time volunteering at the shelter for the next month, though.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t bribe my way out of this,” James protested.  He didn’t really care, though.  Hartley was holding him close, and all he could feel was warm and content. 

“This isn’t a bribe, it’s for your own good,” said Hartley.  He ruffled James’s hair affectionately.  “I have to find some way to keep you busy and out of trouble.  Either that, or I’m getting that leash Flash suggested.”

“Kinky,”James murmured.  He spent the rest of the evening drowsily snuggled against Hartley’s chest, while the musician put on their DVD of Turandot.  (He didn’t even have to get up.  Hartley had the rats trained to work the DVD player.)    

[Tad Strange]

Part 5

(Sorry, no sneezing in this part.  It's mostly a fever dream.)

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The wind was cold against his skin, causing James to shudder as he stood at the very edge of the platform.  It was wrong.  He was never cold under the tent, no matter what time of the year they were performing.  The body heat of the crowd (not to mention the animals – elephants, horses, lions and tigers and bears, oh my!) would stay trapped under the canvas, keeping James warm even in his thin tights and leotard.  He shouldn’t be cold, he shouldn’t be able to feel the wind like this, whipping his blond hair into his eyes.

Everything was wrong.  As James looked down, he could see the sawdust floor far, far below, with ant-like clowns capering about.  No net, as usual.  The drop stretched on impossibly far; James could swear he saw puffs of cotton-like clouds just below the platform.  The noise of the crowd below and the repetitive, peppy circus music was distant and faint, drowned out by the roaring of the wind.  James stepped back, hands grabbing ahold of his mother’s arms as the platform swayed gently back and forth.  No, this wasn’t right, they were too high, it was never this high.  The platform wasn’t supposed to move like this (except it had moved when he’d first stepped on as a child, it had lurched treacherously under his feet as his head spun with fear).  His mother’s grip on his shoulders was firm as she pushed him forward to the edge.

“You’re a Giuseppe.  This is what we do.  Do not shame us, James.”  Her voice was stern.  Across the tent, miles away it seemed, he could see his father starting the routine, swinging forward and grabbing at the next trapeze.  The two of them would meet in the middle.  James reached out and reluctantly grasped the trapeze bar in front of him, just to have something to hang onto.

“It’s too high,” he whispered, shivering.

“The show must go on,” his mother insisted, and she gave him a shove.  Then James was swinging out over nothing, three rings so far beneath his dangling feet and – his shoes!  Where were his special shoes, he wasn’t wearing them!  He’d invented those shoes to be his safety net when his family refused to use one (which was always).  His stomach lurched as he swung back and forth, desperately gripping the trapeze with sweaty palms, his body automatically going through the motions of the routine he knew by heart.  He needed his shoes, he’d die without his shoes!  Maybe he was being punished for misusing them?  But c’mon, he’d only robbed a couple of planes….and dozens of banks.......museums…..mansions, jewelry stores, toy stores, candy shops, electronic stores, a zoo that one time….okay, he’d used his air-walkers to commit a lot of crimes.  But it wasn’t like he was a murderer, right?  He was just trying to emulate his hero, the outlaw Jesse James.     

The wind disagreed.  It tore at his costume and numbed his fingers.  James pulled himself up and hooked his legs over the bar, so that he was dangling by his knees, head pointed down at the distant floor.  He hated this position, which forced his line of sight straight down, but he had to do it.  It was part of the routine, he had to do the routine.  He and his father were in the center now, directly opposite each other, both upside-down.  James stretched his hands out as he swung up, letting his knees go slack.  His father would grab his hands as James released the bar he was on, then swing him over to the next one. 

Except that didn’t happen.  James grasped his father’s hands as he let himself fall forward, and it was so slick, like he was coated in butter.  James had a second to gasp as his father’s fingers popped out of his grip, and then he was holding nothing, standing on nothing, just flailing his arms uselessly as he plummeted towards the ground.  He let his body go limp, but it would do no good at this height.  He found himself flipping over and over in the air, as if the wind was grabbing him and tossing him around.  It didn’t matter, he’d be a red stain on the sawdust whether he landed feet-first or head-first.  He couldn’t even draw in enough breath to scream as he fell and fell and fell….the floor rushing up to meet him, but still somehow far away…..

“James.  James!”  And then strong hands were gripping him, pulling him upwards.  James jerked and slipped forward as his eyes popped open.  He put a hand down and felt the bedroom carpet, although the room looked strange.  He felt a faint tickling, and realized that one of the rats was nibbling at his thumb.  The hands pulled up again, and James’s vision righted itself as the mattress slid reassuringly under his back. 

“James, you okay?  You almost fell out of the bed,” Hartley said.  His arms were wrapped around James’s chest, a much-needed anchor as his head slowly stopped spinning. 

“My hero,” James murmured groggily, reaching up to grip Hartley’s arms. 

“Well, I’ve got a lot of experience keeping you in bed,” Hartley chuckled.  “Although usually you’re getting up because you’re a stubborn man-child with a short attention span.”  He laid his head down on James’s chest. 

“Your heart is pounding.  Was it a dream?”

“Yeah, “ James admitted, reaching out to stroke Hartley’s long hair as the panic in his gut slowly died away.  It was okay.  He wasn’t falling.  He was safe on the ground, with a nice solid bed underneath him, and a deceptively strong boyfriend wrapped around him.  “You know the one.  You can take the acrobat out of the circus, but you can’t take the circus out of the acrobat.”  And even compressed-air shoes could never completely cure James Jesse of his fear of heights, no matter how much he enjoyed running on air at 50 stories up. 

“Hey, don’t worry.  You’ve got air-walkers, and I can float objects with sound waves.  I won’t let you hit the ground.”  Hartley squeezed him a little tighter, then helped pull James up to a sitting position when he started to cough. 

“Here.”  Hartley pulled over the glass of water that was sitting on the nightstand, and pushed a throat lozenge into his hand.

“You are the best boyfriend in the world,” James said between coughs.

“Heh….I’m holding you to that.  In fact, I think I want it in writing, signed and notarized.  Then I can pull it out anytime you complain about silly, inconsequential things, like ‘Hartley, we have too many rats.’”

They did have too many rats, but James’s mouth was filled with water and cough medicine, so he kept his peace.  He didn’t want to fight anyway, he just wanted to lie there in Hartley’s arms and feel safe. 

And then James thought about the other night.  He thought about Hartley waking up alone, confused and disoriented, after yet another nightmare filled with screams and blood.  He thought of Hartley reaching out for reassurance, for James to confirm once again that he wasn’t a murderer, that Evan McCullough was locked up tight in a prison cell.  How horrible it must have been, in a moment like that, to find James missing.

“Hey, Hartley,” James said. 

“Mmm?”  Hartley had laid back down and was snuggled up against his shoulder, arms still locked around his chest.

“I’m really, really sorry about last night.  Really sorry.”

“It’s okay.  We already talked it out,” Hartley said, sounding drowsy.  “Just don’t pull that crap again.”

“I’ll make it up to you.  I’ll give you like, a million backrubs.”

“Literally a million?”

“Literally a million.”

“Okay.  I’m gonna keep count.  Now go to sleep.” 

James wondered for a moment if he’d just over-promised, as he often did.  But nah….he liked giving Hartley backrubs.  He could probably swing a million if they stayed together for the rest of their lives.  And he let that warm thought lull him back to sleep.    

[Tad Strange]

Part 6 (Final part)

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sunday was Hartley’s day-off from the shelter, so he spent the day with his equipment spread across the coffee table, making adjustments to his sonic flute.  Being reformed hadn’t killed his interest in sound waves and sonic technology, and Hartley occasionally used his Pied Piper persona to help Flash stop crimes, so he was constantly up-dating his gear.

James spent Sunday on the couch attempting to break the Guinness world record for “greatest number of sneezes in a single day.”  It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do, but nose seemed determined to go for it.  After the first few hours, he just kept a tissue in his hands at all times, and slumped back against the pillows to ride it out while watching Tex Avery cartoons.  The rats stopped being startled by the constant wet explosions, and began perching on his shoulders and chest.  James didn’t really mind, they were nice little pockets of warmth.  Also, Hartley wasn’t mad any more, and kept bringing him hot chocolate, and other treats.     

“God, this is ri…ah….ridicu….ridi – hehtchew!  Ridiculous.”  James moaned.

“You do seem to be taking this whole ‘cold’ thing to extremes,” Hartley agreed.

“Hey, it’s not me, it’s my nah….ah-heh….my nose….hah….hah-chew!  Thing has a mind of its own.  Like one other body part I could name.”

“Heh….don’t flirt if you’re not up to it,” Hartley said, twisting a few last wires in place on the sonic flute.  “And I’m pretty sure you’re not up to it.”

“No, much as that pains me to say.  I wouldn’t be much f-fun in…ugh…..n-not anothah…..eh…..not another o-one….etchew!”  James rubbed his nose, to no avail.  Normally the only thing that could make him sneeze like this were lilacs, his one very specific allergy.  When he encountered them in flower shops or gardens, he would drop to his knees screeching dramatically, “I’m melting, I’m melting!”  Hartley, who had to deal with some mild spring hay-fever, was usually not amused.

“Bet you can’t even go five minutes without sneezing in your condition,” Hartley said.

“Oh?  And what are we placing on that little wager?”

“Well, it was just idle talk, but if you really insist, losing means you have to watch a documentary with me, and keep your mouth shut for the duration.”

“Making ridiculous bets over stupid things?  Mr. Rathaway, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is that a yes?”

“Sure, but the documentary can’t run over 90 minutes, and it has to be about animals.”  James figured he could handle that.  He enjoyed watching cute animals, he could also enjoy it with some British announcer droning on about habitats and ecosystems.  Anything to keep Hartley from putting on something about the evils of capitalism.

“Deal.”

“Okay, starting…..no, wait…hah….”  James let out another sneeze that had come up quickly, then blew his nose several times in a row, hoping to clear it out for the moment.  “Starting now.”  Hartley hit the stopwatch button on his phone, and brought it over to the couch so they could watch the seconds count up.

Only thirty seconds in, and James felt a liquid trickle run down the back of his nose, making him sniff and wince.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to lose already,” Hartley smirked, watching him closely.

“Not even close,” James declared, with more confidence than he really felt.  The trickle seemed to be increasing.  “Wait, am I allow to blow?  We didn’t really define that rule, so I’m saying yes.”

“I guess I should know better than to make bets with you without clearly defining the terms,” Hartley sighed.  “I suppose anything’s allowed.  You just can’t sneeze for another…oh, 4 minutes and 7 seconds.”

Four minutes.  No problem.  James blew his nose and leaned back against the pillows.  He’d done things far more difficult and far stupider to win bets in the past, although alcohol was usually involved.  He felt his nose start to run again, and dabbed at it with a tissue.  The itch flared up again, and he couldn’t resist a sudden, sharp intake of breath.

“Doing okay over there?” Hartley asked.  “3 minutes, 44 seconds, by the way.”

“Sounds like a wah…huh…a walk in the p-park….heh…”  The tickle seemed to be getting stronger.  Obviously it was just doing this to spite him.  Where was a stuck sneeze when he really needed it?  He rubbed at his nose, but it only brought a moment’s relief.    

“3 minutes, 20 seconds,” Hartley said.  “I mean, in case you were wondering.”

“The passage of time means nothing to me, Hartley.  Because I don’t have to sneeze.”  James sniffed again.

“Not at all?”

“N-not at…..all…” James wrinkled his nose.  God, it itched so badly.  He could feel his breath start to hitch, in spite of his attempts to breathe deep and even.

“Someone’s not going to make it,” Hartley said, grinning.

“Oh yea of luh….ah…little f-faith…” James rubbed at his nose again, but it only seemed to make things worse.  He blew his nose, and that seemed to stop the tickle for a moment.

“There, see?  I…eh…aheh…heh…”  The tickle was back in an instant, and it brought friends.  It was a party in James’ nose, and all the germs were invited!  And they were all waving feather dusters around, attacking his sensitive mucus membranes.  The itch seemed to get exponentially larger each second.  Maybe talking would help him ward off the sneeze for a few more precious minutes?

“I s-swear tha…this cold is…uh…is…hah…hah-heh!  Heh!”  He pinched his nose shut for a moment, feeling it twitch under his fingers.  “It’s dow…downright agrah…huh….aggressive…heh….hah…”  Even nose pinching wasn’t doing much good, as the tickle pushed him closer and closer to the brink.

“Well, it’s annoying.  Like you!” Hartley said, ruffling his hair with good humor.

“D-don’t…ah…distract m-me, heh…heh…Hart…”  Why, when he’d actually made a bet, did he get stuck with the most persistent sneeze in the world? 

“Hah!  Haaaah…..Eh……Heeeeh….” James pressed a finger up against his quivering nostrils, struggling to hold on.  But it was too late.  “Heeeeh-CHOOO!”  His head snapped forward with the force of it, and he pulled his now-slimy finger away, wincing in disgust.

“Don’t you know that only works in cartoons?” Hartley said.

“You mean cartoons lied to me?  I’ll never trust Bugs Bunny again.”  James grabbed tissues to wipe away the mess on his face and hand. 

“Somehow I doubt that.  But you still lost.  Now we’re watching March of the Penguins.”

“Jokes on you, Hart, I love penguins!” James said, turning away to sneeze again.  He wasn’t even going to try to hold them again after that little torture session.

“Yeah, I know you do,” Hartley responded, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder.  “I’m being merciful.  ‘Cause you’re sick and all.”

“Awwww, best boyfriend…..I could kiss you if I wasn’t so gross and infectious.”  Hartley compromised by kissing his forehead.  They spent the afternoon watching penguins, with James’s constant sneezing punctuating key points in the narration.

It was another three days before James was completely better.  He called into work for the first part of the week, milking the cold for all it was worth.  Hey, no point in being sick and miserable if you can’t miss work, right?  After going back to the office on Thursday, James stopped to buy Hartley a little surprise gift on his way home. 

“A leash,” said Hartley, raising a bemused eyebrow.  James had put it inside a fancy gift bag and everything.

“And a collar,” James added, raising it up.  Both items were covered in rhinestones, glittering in the light.  Only the best in the Jesse-Rathaway household, even for gag gifts.  “So that you can keep me out of trouble.”

“Well….”  Hartley considered.  “I think I know a way to put that present to good use…and keep you out of trouble for a while.”

The two of them went to bed early that night, for reasons that had nothing to do with being sick.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

And that's the end.  Hopefully it was okay to post it all at once.  I had the whole thing written, and wanted to go ahead and put it all up.  Thanks for reading!

[Bruyere]

I am loosely familiar with Hartley from the CW Flash and I don't really know the other characters at all but it didn't stop me from really enjoying this. I'm really glad you posted it all in one go as it was lovely to read through on  a Sunday afternoon.

I really liked the way you presented Hartley and James' relationship and Hartley coming around at the end. And even though I know that you can't catch cold from being out in the rain it was one my favourite things so I loved that being the reason behind his cold.

 

[AnteatersOnParade]

This was beautifully done! I'll write a longer review tomorrow since it's late but I just had to say that as soon as I read this. Great job. Love.

[Tad Strange]

I just wanted to thank you both for the very kind comments, I appreciate it!  I also like the "catching a cold in the rain" trope, so I can't resist using it.  Thanks for reading!