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M.
Ray had a horrible cold. Not for him the usual, garden-variety, everyday, a few wheezes and a coupla honks kind of cold. Oh, no. Everybody else got those. He got a head-stopping, heart-pounding, chest-threatening, energy-sucking collection of virii with the tenacity of a Mountie on the trail of the most despicable litterer. He'd gone to work in a state of near-death because Dewey, all delicate sniffs and pathetic sighs, had already called in sick and they couldn't spare another warm body. No matter how many cold chills that allegedly warm body suffered.
Miserable and knowing oxygen deprivation had killed more brain cells in one hour than all his drinking days in college combined, Ray opened the door to his apartment and was immediately assailed by a noxious cloud.
"P-U, Fraser! What IS that stink?" Hand over his nose, eyes stinging, Ray peered suspiciously at his partner.
"Mustard, Ray." Fraser was unflustered, as ever. "It's reassuring to know your sense of smell isn't affected. How's the cold?"
"That's not mustard, Frase. Mustard's yellow and comes in little plastic barrels. And it don't stink like that." Ray stripped off his jacket and kicked the thermostat up ten degrees. "And the cold is alive and kicking, thanks. Kicking harder than me, not like that's too tough right now."
Fraser assessed Ray's posture and timbre critically. "It's moved to your chest, hasn't it?"
Ray nodded acknowledgement, then winced as the movement played havoc with his inner ear.
"New rules, Frase. No nodding, no laughing, no running. Nothing that blocks the airways, or increases my need for oxygen, alright?" Ray tried to sit on the sofa, but even that slight compression of his torso made him dizzy. He rolled upright and leaned a hip against the doorway. "I mean, I know that cancels out just about everything we usually do on a Tuesday night, or any night for that matter, but I just can't."
"I think I have something that will help, Ray. But it's entirely up to you." Blandly, Fraser gazed innocently at his suffering partner.
Ray eyed the concoction on the counter dubiously. "Do I hafta eat it? I'll barf, Fraser, I swear."
Fraser smiled. "No eating, Ray. It's a mustard plaster, a variation on an old remedy my grandmother used to use."
"No offense, Fraser, but your grandma has a reputation for taking the hard road, y'know?"
"None taken, Ray. I assure you, I've used this recipe before with good results."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Okay. I trust you." Plainly, Ray's body wasn't as convinced as his brain. He looked like a startled racehorse, all legs and quivering anxiety. "What do I do?"
"Take your shirt off." Ray moved to comply. Fraser kept talking, soothingly, as he would have done for the frightened and uncomprehending animal Ray emulated. "Here, sit on the table. We'll apply the preparation this way, but I hope you'll be able to lie down and sleep soon. Hold the bowl. Now, this is going to be a bit warm to start, and it'll get warmer yet before we're done. The decongestant properties of mustard are well known, as is its drawing power. An application of mustard emulsion increases surface circulation, reduces inflammation, and speeds healing. What we're doing here is combining the decongestant and therapeutic attributes to loosen the phlegm in your sinuses and lungs and make it easier for you to breathe."
"Mmmmm. I'm all over that." Ray leaned back on his arms, eyes closed. Fraser had moved to the edge of the table to apply the messy cure, standing unconcerned between Ray's dangling thighs. When Fraser's hands stopped massaging warm, smelly goo onto his chest, Ray smiled and raised his legs slightly, loosely trapping Fraser between his crossed ankles. "Why'd you stop? That's nice."
"The mustard needs to set, Ray. And it should be covered for greatest efficacy."
Lazily, Ray opened one eye. Well, one eyebrow did a strong pushup and lifted the lid beneath it. "Greatest what?" He released Fraser, but recaptured him when he returned with a warm, damp towel.
"Efficacy. It works best that way. There. About ten minutes, I think. Then we remove the mustard, apply a light mentholated salve, and keep you covered."
"What else you know about mustard?" Ten minutes of Fraser talking would be ten minutes Ray didn't have to think or talk or do anything but listen. He could listen.
Fraser smiled again, aware of Ray's penchant for using him like a portable radio. Background noise. He probably ought to mind, but he didn't. Braced comfortably relaxed between Ray's knees, he quickly organized his thoughts and began to lecture.
He talked about mustard, the different species, its place in the cabbage family of plants, its history as a condiment and cure from Egyptian times to the present. Ray's breathing deepened unconsciously, his relief a potent combination of home cure and run-on Fraser.
"...So you see, Ray, the yellow condiment you enjoy on hotdogs is not derived from the Brassica family at all, but is in fact Sinapsis alba, white mustard. Turmeric provides the yellow hue. Mustard is quite a healthy means of augmenting bland dishes, it has few calories, no fat, and contains more than 25% protein. All parts of the plants are edible, and many people find it rewarding to seek out wild populations to harvest the leaves and seeds..."
"Fraser?" It was a whisper, half-amused, half-alarmed.
"Yes, Ray?"
"You beat the mustard thing to death yet?" Ray chuckled, drifting. "Have to bust you, Frase. Bring you in for mustard murder. Wait. No. It's not dead, so it's just mustard abuse. Assault with a deadly condiment. That's not right. Mustard fla... what's that big word for whaling the crap outta something?"
"Flagellation?"
"Yeah. Mustard flagellation. Can you flagellate a plant? You can do it with a hot dog, but maybe not the mustard. Fraser?"
"Hmm?" Fraser resolved in future to check the hallucinogenic properties of all medicinal compounds before applying them to Ray.
"Am I done yet?"
A quick glance at his watch. "Yes. Let me get some rinse water."
From behind the sink, Fraser continued his mustard monologue. "Although I've never had occasion to test it, I've been told that a teaspoonful of mustard powder in one's socks will prevent frostbite."
"You're making that up."
"No, I'm not. I'll find you a reference, if you'd like. Admittedly, it seems a bit far-fetched. I think I'd rather put my trust in well-constructed boots. Don't move, I'll do it all." Fraser gently uncovered his percolating partner, and Ray sighed.
"One thing you didn't mention."
"What's that?"
"What's in this goop?"
"Oh, it's a simple plaster. Mustard powder, ordinary white flour for its glutinous properties, and enough warm water to activate and bind everything together."
Ray's lazy smile brightened. "So, you could eat it, right?"
Fraser blinked rapidly a few times. "I could, Ray, but I don't think that would be appropriate." Ray sighed again, disappointed. A deep sigh, Fraser noted with some satisfaction. The plaster had done its work. Shirtless, prone and quiet on tabletop, Ray certainly looked quite ... edible. No, Ray was much too ill to entertain even the mildest erotic suggestion. Still, a promise could be made for the future.
Fraser let one broad finger trail gently through the half-cleared plaster on Ray's chest. Wide blue eyes followed his actions, equal parts curiosity and desire. He sucked the paste from his finger, then dipped it again and held the small offering to Ray's incredulous mouth. Ray obediently licked the concoction from Fraser's finger, eyes widening as it burned a path through his esophagus.
Conversationally, Fraser said, "There's one more thing about mustard, Ray. The consumption of mustard preparations is supposed to be a cure for idiopathic depression, or 'the blues'. A certain melancholy gripped me when I realized your health would preclude our usual evening's activities. While that isn't, strictly speaking, an idiopathic condition, I'm sure a small dose ..."
"Fraser?"
"Yes, Ray?"
"Shut up." Ray's soft tone belied the harsh words. He licked his lips thoughtfully. "Maybe we can explore the internal applications of mustard some other time? That's pretty good stuff."