Will You Still Love Me

"I'm dying."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

His lover brushed the hair back from the fevered forehead and placed a gentle kiss upon it.

"You aren't going to die," he said with conviction.

"You're just humoring me." He shifted uneasily, wincing. Strong hands kneaded a painful ache in his shoulder. He sighed.

"I changed my will. I've left everything to you. When I'm dead."

"I'm flattered," came the sardonic response. His beloved brushed a cool damp cloth across his face.

"God, that feels good."

A chuckle.

"Why is dying so uncomfortable?" He coughed, his chest rattling and then coughed again, harder, longer, bringing up phlegm. His lover wiped his mouth and he spit into the cloth.

"Sorry. That was…disgusting."

"It's to be expected." It was said with love and patience.

"I'm dying."

Malcolm rolled his eyes and offered Jon a glass of water. "It's just the flu. Phlox says you'll be fine in a day or two."

"At least when I'm dead, Porthos will still have someone who loves him taking care of him."

"You know, you're an even bigger baby than I am when you're sick."

Jon frowned. "I'm not a baby. I'm dying," he repeated petulantly. He let Malcolm tilt the glass to his lips and he took a few sips. It exhausted him. He scooted down from his propped position on the bed, sinking into the pillows and turning on his side, facing away from Malcolm. Malcolm adjusted the blankets over him.

"I'm still cold," Jon complained.

"Poor baby," Malcolm murmured, the teasing humor apparent in his voice. He slid into the bed and spooned against Jon, brushing light kisses against the nape of his neck.

"That tickles," Jon said, cranky.

Malcolm's hand drifted across Jon's chest, rubbing light circles.

"Does that tickle?"

"Mmm. No." Jon relaxed, closing his eyes and let Malcolm's expert fingers soothe the muscle aches from his strenuous bouts of hacking.

Jon broke the silence. "Will you still love me when I'm old and grey? And dying?"

"Of course. I'll love you when you become a crotchety old crumblie, whinging about your bunions and how things aren't like they used to be back in your day. I'll love you when you're bald and spotty, I'll love you when you're wrinkled and shrunken…I'll even love you when you become senile and impotent."

Jon chuckled, then stopped, trying hard not to cough. Malcolm continued to rub his chest.

"Never impotent."

Malcolm laughed. "By the time your stubborn arse is ready to die, you'll be well into your hundreds…I'd think it would be inevitable…"

Jon turned over and faced his lover, enjoying the continued gentle caress from those wonderfully talented hands. He took in the smirk, the bright teasing eyes—the utter love he saw in those expressive eyes. He leaned forward and kissed him.

"Malcolm, with you as my life partner, I will never become impotent. You could make a dead man come."

Malcolm laughed and Jon grinned delighting in the free and easy sound.

Malcolm's hand drifted lower.

"Well, since you're dying and all, perhaps we could test your theory?"

Jon merely moaned and figured that dying wasn't that bad after all.