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Summary
Greg made what he hoped was a sympathetic noise. “Well,” he said bracingly, “luckily for us all, I had chickenpox when I was 4 and also have no real Christmas plans, so you can quarantine with me as long as you need to until the risk of passing it to her has passed.”
“Thanks,” Alex said, without lifting his head up. “But it’s really only until she takes the kids to her parents. Then I can go be miserable at home.”
“Don’t be daft,” Greg said, bending to pick the pile of coats up off the floor. “I’m not letting you spend Christmas at home alone. Especially since last I checked, stress causes shingles.”
Alex picked his head up just far enough to glare pathetically at him. “Stress doesn’t cause shingles,” he said crossly, in the tone of someone who’d said this now multiple times over the past few days to every person who reminded him that he needed to take it easy for once in his life.
Thankfully, especially while sick, Alex was about as intimidating as a wet puppy.
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