Frying Pan

“I love Wales, but it hates me!”

He had said it before. He’ll say it again and again and again until someone either listens to him for once, or he sneezes himself silly, whichever is to come first.

The sneeze that shook the castle alerted everyone that yes, Howl was back, and yes, he was sick.

He was also soaked. And looking a bit like a drowned cat. A miserable drowned cat. A miserable drowned cat that needed attention.

The towel that flapped around his head before being pulled taunt by the ever-diligent Sophie told him that he got attention.

Whether that was good or bad, he’d find out in a few seconds as he let Sophie rub his hair dry before she moved onto the rest of him.

“Only you would drip all over a mopped floor, Howl,” she murmured as she continued her ministrations, muttering and clucking like the mother hen she tended to be wherever Michael or himself were concerned.

He hated that muttering, it drove him nuts because he could barely hear it through the towel and he could stop that muttering without getting too ill in the process.

Howl waited for Sophie to stop her prodding at his jacket, only to embrace her as a negligent hand brushed against his chest.

He stopped, tightened his grip, and waited for the blush that he just waited for because this was Sophie, she was fairly predictable on a good day. He counted on her being predictable on most days, because he didn’t have to wear a watch those days.

No blush, which meant that she didn’t notice where she had touched, but she was struggling to escape him, which meant that dancing away from the frying pans was a very good idea.

Because a Sophie armed with a frying pan was a very dangerous Sophie indeed.