Pokemon Fan Fiction / Pokemon Fan Fiction ❯ Oatmeal and Mittens ❯ Oatmeal and Mittens ( Chapter 1 )

Oatmeal and Mittens

Disclaimer: Pokemon belongs to Nintendo, Game Freak, 4Kids, and probably some other people I'm forgetting. In any case, it's not mine.

WARNING: This fic contains gratuitous fluffiness; proceed at your own risk!

Ash-19, Misty-21

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You know, I wish like hell that my mother had been slightly less protective as a kid. She was always the type of semi-hysterical mom who whisked me away from the other kids the second one of them sneezed; "I can't have my little boy getting sick!" she'd cried as she hauled me back to the house, pressing a hand to my forehead and forcing about sixteen gallons of chicken noodle soup down my throat. When you're a kid, you appreciate stuff like that-I mean, until you go back to school and the other kids mock you to high heaven for being a "momma's boy".

But I digress. The real reason I wish my mom hadn't given a damn and had just let me play with the other little germ factories is this: if I had gotten the chicken pox when I was, like, six, I wouldn't be stuck with them at nineteen…and being taken care of by Misty, of all people.

The way it worked out is that I had stopped at the Cerulean City Gym to visit Misty, and she happened to be in the middle of a battle. Naturally, I decided to watch, mainly so I could take note of her technique and tease her about it later.

Well, as it turns out, her opponent was this feverish, scabby thing who barely even looked old enough to have his Trainer's License. I'm not sure that's how Misty viewed him at first-she's generally a lot more tolerant than I am-but after he managed to throw up all over her before the battle even began, I'm pretty confident when I say that she was probably more than a little peeved.

As for me, I was absolutely furious when it turned out that the kid was just getting over the goddamned chicken pox. Misty'd apparently already gotten them as a kid, and I thought I had, too…until I woke up the next morning covered in red spots. A quick phone call to Mom back in Pallet Town confirmed that it was Gary who had gotten them. Now, usually I'd be more than a little happy to know that I'd escaped an illness that had afflicted my arch-nemesis, but since I was now pretty much rendered immobile due to the wracking pain that these stupid dots have managed to radiate, my joy was short-lived.

Mom was already practically out the door and on her way to come get me, but Misty assured her that she'd take good care of me as long as I was laid low by the virus. Somehow, I didn't find that too reassuring…

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"Let's go, Ash! It's time for your bath!"

I groan as I hear those dreaded words; the term 'bath' when you have the chicken pox involves the very painful process of lowering your very achy body into a tub filled with some foul-smelling herbal oatmeal and sitting there for twenty minutes. I don't really understand what that's supposed to do; all I know is that it feels like someone's pouring acid over my skin.

"Come on, Ash," Misty says in a slightly softer tone as she enters my bedroom, helping me off the bed upon which I've lain prone for the past six hours. Oh, yes, did I mention that Misty supervises these oatmeal baths? Since another of the wonderful side effects of chicken pox is lethargy, she's terrified that I'd just kind of fall asleep in the tub and drown myself; incidentally, I've been internally debating how long she'd let me sit underwater before actually making an effort to pull me out.

When we reach the bathroom, she carefully pulls off the fluffy, baby-blue mittens that she's rubber-banded to my wrists so that I don't unconsciously scratch at the scabs and leave scars. When I actually take the time to think about it, I'm always reminded of how, despite the yelling and bad-tempered-ness and mallet-swinging, Misty generally tends to care about me a lot more than I think she should; I mean, what have I really done to deserve her kindness?

"Okay, strip down and get in," the object of my thoughts says matter-of-factly, turning her back to me. I can't help but be a little distracted by her as I watch her tap her foot impatiently, silently waiting for me to hurry up and get in the water. She's come a long way from that skinny, bow-legged little runt I met all those years ago; she's really blossomed into something fantastic. Misty has become a woman in every sense of the word, with full breasts and luscious curves…

I sigh and pull of my terry-cloth bathrobe, mentally chastising myself. It's pretty damn pathetic that Misty can even get me excited when I'm sick, but hey, I'm a nineteen year old male; it happens.

"Are you done yet?" Misty asks irritably, her trademarked impatience seeping into her tone.

I grit my teeth as I lower myself into the water, the awful stench from the medicinal oatmeal assaulting my senses. God, this stuff is horrible… "Yeah, I'm good."

She turns around and takes her usual place on floor next to the tub, absently toying with a corner of the well-worn bathmat on the tiled floor. "Sorry about this," she says, offering me an apologetic smile, "but you're not going to get better unless we treat you."

"I know," I say with a sigh. "It's not your fault this stuff's so goddamned horrible."

"You know, Brock sent it over."

"Yeah?"

"He's already dealt with ten cases of chicken pox with his little brothers and sisters, so I called him and asked him how I should handle it. He drove over and dropped off some of 'Brock's Special Oatmeal Bath' this morning while you were still asleep."

"Remind me to kill him later."

"He also dropped off a pot of his homemade chicken soup."

"…okay, you can cancel the murder."

Misty smiles a little and leans over, pressing her small hand against my forehead. "Do you think you still have a fever?"

I don't even hear her for a moment as I focus entirely on the feel of her soft skin touching mine; it's an entirely intoxicating feeling. "I don't know…"

"You look a little flushed," she says seriously, and inside I'm cursing myself; I must be blushing.

"It's nothing," I manage to say, and I turn my head away. Behind me, I hear her sigh, and I feel like the biggest jerk in the world for dismissing her kindness. Turning back and ignoring the water sloshing over the side of the tub, I say, "Thanks for worrying about me."

"Would I do anything otherwise?" Misty asks, sporting that adorable little smile that always causes my heart to nearly beat out of my chest. "I think you've been in there long enough," she observes, pulling herself off the floor and handing me a fluffy towel. "I'll be downstairs in the living room when you're done."

I watch her leave, a small twinge pulling at my heart that I don't quite understand. Sighing heavily, I pull the stopper from the drain and towel myself off carefully, trying to avoid each of the three-hundred-odd pock marks over my body-without much success. Damn chicken pox are driving me crazy….

…though not as much as a certain red-haired girl…

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With the heavy pine-green terrycloth robe tied around me, I descend into the living room, where Misty is sitting on the couch absently flipping through the wasteland that is modern TV. "Hey," I greet her with a smile, sitting next to her on the overstuffed sofa.

"Medicine," she says simply, handing me two white capsules and a glass of water. I down them quickly and go back to observing Misty, who has apparently settled on The Princess Bride.

"Ahhh, Misty, this is a chick flick!" I whine plaintively as I settle into a more comfortable position on the couch.

"Since when do you get to dictate what I watch in my house?" she asks with that same slightly dangerous voice that I know spells certain death for anyone dumb enough to argue with it.

I guess I've never been one of the brightest individuals in the world.

"But I'm sick! I should be allowed to pick what movie we watch!"

"Tough," Misty says frankly. "Just sit back and relax; maybe you'll like it."

"Somehow I doubt that," I say obstinately, crossing my arms across my chest and pouting.

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Halfway through, Misty's gone starry-eyed and is so engrossed in the movie that she's almost in a trance. Sappy romance flicks always do this to her; that's why I was so against her watching one in the first place.

"Shh, be quiet for this part!" she whispers loudly, as if I had been chattering away nonstop. Why do girls always say stuff like that?

To be honest, I haven't even been watching. But somehow, I get the message that the guy in black is in love with that girl in the red dress-seeing as how they're passionately kissing at the bottom of a hill now. I'm all set to make some snide remark about how stupid this whole thing is when I feel her hand gently move to rest upon mine.

I feel my breath leave me in a rush of air at the gesture; the fact that something so small, so insignificant can affect me like that just confuses me all the more. I look over at Misty, but her eyes are still glued to the screen. Maybe she isn't even aware of what she's done?

I'm suddenly caught up in a rush of emotions. I want to hold her close, tell her how much she means to me, and stay by her side for the rest of my life. There are so many things I want to tell her…

Instead, I silently move my mitten-clad hand to hold hers tightly.

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"100.8," Misty says with a frown, carefully observing the mercury thermometer in her hand. I have no idea how people read those things; to me, it just looks like a silver line with a bunch of numbers stuck inside some glass. "I thought your fever would have come down a little by now."

"So you're going to be stuck with me for a little longer," I yawn as I climb into the double bed. "Just your luck, huh?"

"I don't mind," she says in a voice just loud enough for me to hear. She punches the pillows arranged onto her futon a little before smoothing out the sheets; Misty's insistence that she keep a hawk-like eye on me at all times has led to us sharing her small bedroom. Not that it's a big deal or anything; we slept side-by-side for, what, five years when we were still on our Pokemon journey. At least here, I sleep in the bed, and Misty sleeps on the futon that she keeps in the storage room for times when I decide to visit her and spend the night.

Despite my sickness, I feel guilty about making her sleep on that damn futon all night; I know from personal experience just how uncomfortable that thing can be. Maybe it's the fever talking, but... "Hey, Mist?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to…sleep with me tonight?"

I realize instantly that my wording is all wrong when her face instantly turns three shades of red. "Wh-what?" she asks in an incredulous voice.

"Not like that!" I quickly atone, waving my hands frantically. "I meant, just…you know, like friends. That futon isn't comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, and I was just trying to help you out."

Misty is silent for a moment, seemingly fascinated by the ocean-blue carpet of her bedroom floor. "…okay."

My heart races as she slowly climbs into bed next to me, her back against my chest. For several minutes, we stay that way, and I'm quite content at my close proximity to her. Of course, being so incredibly good at keeping the mood, I'm the one to break the silence. "…Misty?"

"Mm," she mumbles sleepily, unconsciously pressing closer to me and unwittingly nearly causing me to lose my mind.

"Thanks for taking care of me," I whisper. "It really means a lot."

"I'll always be there for you," Misty responds quietly, and I even as dense as I tend to be with this kind of thing, I understand that she means it in more than one way. I want to reassure her that I get her meaning, so I let my instincts guide me and hesitantly allow my arm to circle her waist. "…goodnight, Mist," I say softly, resting my cheek against the top of her head.

I'm almost completely asleep as she snuggles closer to me and takes my hand.

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I awaken the next morning to hear several high-pitched voices engaged in a shouting match down the hall, and I groggily realize that Misty's sisters must have returned home from their latest vacation…I think it was Hawaii this time. Rubbing my eyes, I carefully make my way over to the door to eavesdrop.

"We were not 'getting horizontal' while you guys were gone!" I hear Misty say in that increasingly high voice she tends to get when she's embarrassed.

"Then what were you doing lying in his arms this morning?" Daisy says, and I can just imagine the suggestive smirk on her face.

"He has the chicken pox! I was keeping him company!"

"Wow, like, are you sure it's a good idea to be around him if he has the chicken pox?" Violet asks somewhat seriously, and I lean a little closer towards the sound of their voices.

"Why wouldn't it be a good idea?" Misty asks. "I've already had the chicken pox."

"Like, no you haven't," Lily observes. "We all, like, got it when we were kids, but somehow you, like, didn't get sick at all."

"Bet she will now, though," Daisy notes.

"Like, definitely," Violet agrees.

I carefully edge away from the door and close the door as carefully as I can, sliding the lock into place. "Three…two…one…"

"ASH!!"

|END|

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