prompt: Sybil and Tom take a sick day together when it's snowing outside (wasn't really meant to be a modern au, but it turned out to be just that)

Snowfall

Sybil, Tom muttered for the tenth time this morning, arm still outstretched from turning off the shrill, beeping noise of the alarm clock. It seemed to be his curse, having insisted on buying the larger bed, and now being stuck sleeping on the side of the bed with room for a carton-box-turned-bedside-table, and having to turn off an alarm that was not meant for him.

No, Sybil whined, and as Tom turned to gently poke her side with his elbow, he saw her burying her face in her cushion, hair standing wildly at all angles, covering her like a second blanket.

You're going to be late, he said plainly, his voice husky, and he regretted his decision to stay up late to fix the broken cabinet door in the kitchen. Who needed it to stay closed anyway?

Go away, Sybil muttered into the cushion, although Tom could barely understand a word. He nudged her again, knowing he would only have to take the blame later on in case she really ended up late for work. Which happened a lot.

He smiled a little as she finally scrambled out of bed, moaning and sighing, tripping over the pile of laundry by the foot of the bed. It was so like her and, despite being tired and the guy to turn of her alarm while he could be sleeping for another half hour, Tom felt every nerve ending inside of him warm a little with comfort to be here with her in this tiny, cramped flat.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Tom shivered as the cold air hit his bare chest. Perhaps he should have called their landlord about the broken heating. Again. Sybil had offered to ask her parents for help, just this once as there really seemed no point in waiting for their landlord to do something about it, but there was no way. Tom would rather fix it himself – completely ignoring the fact that a heating probably did not resemble a car in any way, shape or form.

Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me. Her words were a bit too loud for so early in the morning and an ancient apartment complex, and Tom – wrinkled forehead and rubbing his eyes – stumbled out of bed and towards the tiny bathroom, the door not closing properly since the draft in their flat had smashed it closed a little too brutally.

What? He asked, still half asleep, fearing that the water pipes had finally given in.

Look, Sybil said with such a grumpy undertone to her voice that Tom nearly began to chuckle, slipping over one of his own socks on the floor. Her finger was pointing at the window – perhaps the sole luxury of their flat – and Tom immediately saw what she meant.

There, in the pale yellow glow of the street light, where thick, fluffy snowflakes dancing in the darkness, the ground already covered in an impressive layer of pristinely white snow.

I hate winter, Sybil muttered, and only now did Tom see the neon blue toothbrush sticking out of her mouth.

No you don't. No one hates winter.

I do, she replied defiantly, marking her words by spitting the toothpaste, smelling so brutally of mint that it made Tom's eyes water, back into the sink.

Unacceptable, he murmured, slightly distracted by her pale, long legs as she pulled off her turquoise sweat pants and threw them into a corner.

Look, Sybil said, once more pointing towards the window, What's there to like about it?

I can show you, Tom suggested, leaning against the cold, tiled wall, arms crossed in front of his chest.

How? Send me pictures of pretty snow covered mountains while I'm stuck at my desk at work all day?

That's not what I had in mind, he said quietly, although the husky sound of his voice was entirely to blame on a lack of sleep. He took slow, deliberate steps towards her, and she tilted her head, eyeing him suspiciously as he approached her. Brushing his lips across the expanse of her neck, his hands came to rest against her upper arms, hoovering there every so slightly.

You can do that in summer, you know? She noted, although he could detect the slight hitch in her voice when his nose nudged against the underside of her ear.

That's not quite the same, he explained, mind drifting off to woollen blankets and fireplaces and bare skin in the glow of the flames.

Hmm, Sybil sighed, sounding unconvinced but her hands coming to rest against his bare chest anyway.

They had neither the blankets nor the fireplace, but Tom didn't mind as his hand slipped under her sweater and moved up the expanse of her back, free to roam, soft skin against his calloused palm.

You know, I don't think I'm feeling very well this morning, he murmured against her neck, feeling her shiver as his warm breath fanned over her sensitive skin.

Me neither, Sybil agreed, and Tom felt his knees buckle as her fingers trailed ever so slowly along the waistband of his boxers.

How curious, he breathed, pulled back just enough to look into her still clouded eyes.

Yeah, how very curious, she repeated with a mischievous grin, and Tom knew that despite the quick call at work, there would be no contact to the outside world today, even if the storm should claim it all.