Cough

So, I know Dameon can heal a lot of things and maybe the common cold should be on that list. But... what if it wasn't? And if it wasn't, what if Rhen caught a cold? And what if I wrote a sickeningly fluffy piece about it and threw in lots of horrible teases and wonderfully unrealistic misfortunes that *somehow* turned out fortunate for my shipping purposes? What if?

(Also known as, I can in fact still write pure fluff xD But maybe that's not a surprise because it is RhenxDameon, soo…)

Some non-important details that might confuse you if I don't mention them: Rhen's Pa (Tailor) is a shoemaker, and the Sedona manor has a dining room and a kitchen, and said kitchen, for whatever reason, also has chairs and tables in it.


She was trying her best to save the world, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that her best was decidedly lacking. For one, she really had intended to leave Sedona by now, but there had been one thing after another, and now—

Cough—

Now she was—

Cough—

Sick—

Cough—

"Rhen, are you all right in there?" Dameon's voice sounded muffled through the heavy oak door. Or maybe it sounded muffled because her head was all clogged up.

"I'm fine!" she managed through her dry throat.

Cough!

"Are you— sure?"

She choked down the cough that was trying to escape. "Yeah," she squeaked. "I'm fine."

"Oh— okay. Well— um— breakfast is ready."

"Okay," she said. "Thank you." And then she grumbled to herself about having to get up at all— and why of all times did she have to catch a cold now? Shouldn't fate grant the chosen one some kind of immunity to stuff like this? Couldn't it just wait until after all this was over?

But no, apparently not. Whatever. She was just going to have to suck it up. She pushed the blankets off herself and sat up groggily, and immediately decided it was too dang cold in this house and she was taking her blanket with her, and that was that.

She looked around the room for her boots, but she couldn't find them. She was too tired and sick for this. What was the point of shoes, anyway? She felt guilty for thinking it; shoes were her Pa's living, after all. But— blast it! They weren't worth all this trouble. Her head was spinning. She was not going to bother with shoes, not today. She exited the room, barefoot, and slammed the door behind her.

It can be difficult to walk down a hall while wrapped up in a large quilt that drags on the ground, especially when said hall is the designated gathering place for a multitude of pets and that multitude includes a tiger and a dog (had No taken her shoes?) and two flappy flying things and also a very cute but very finicky cat. But Rhen was nothing if not perseverant—

Okay, all right, stubborn, she was nothing if not stubborn. But anyway she made it through the hall to the kitchen, where Lars, Elini, and Galahad had tried to start an assembly line for piling food on their plates, and where Pirate John and Mad Marge were ignoring all such attempts at imposing order and were stuffing their faces without discretion.

Briefly she considered joining the latter group, but her nose was stuffy and her lungs were sore and anyway the floor was cold. She wanted to sit down, and that meant she'd need a plate. So to the back of the assembly line she went.

"Good morning, sword singer," Elini said, noticing her first. "I take it you are a bit tired today?"

Rhen grunted and grabbed a plate.

"M'lady," Galahad began scoldingly, "it is not decent to carry your bedding around like that!"

"Mmph," Rhen argued articulately, then forked a couple pancakes onto her plate. Actually she forked most of the remaining pancakes onto her plate. Because she wanted to.

"Oh, is that Rhen?" Lars said. "I thought Mad Marge must have a sister I hadn't met yet or something."

"Whatever," Rhen yawned. And then she coughed, and dumped a lake of blueberry syrup onto her pancakes.

She dodged around Pirate John and Mad Marge— honestly Mad Marge was terrifying and Rhen didn't want to be anywhere near her, ever— and she went to the dining room to sit down.

Or she tried to.

Instead she nearly ran into Dameon, who was exiting the dining room with his dirty dishes, and she only barely kept her plate of pancakes from spilling all over the both of them.

"Er— hi, Dameon," she said with perfect grace and poise and all that (by which is meant, very little of either).

"Good morning, Rhen," he said, and backtracked to pull out a chair for her—

Except then they were both shoved inelegantly out of the way by a very agitated Galahad, who apparently intended to start his running around the dining room table early today on account of Te'ijal being right behind him— and Dameon's dishes shattered all over the floor, and Rhen's beautiful pancakes mixed in with all the shards of glass, and in spite of all her best intentions her blueberry syrup ended up all over the front of Dameon's robes. She stammered an apology and tried to wipe off the syrup with her hand that wasn't holding a plate, which proved completely ineffective and actually rather counterproductive and also her blanket had slipped off her shoulders and she was cold—

"That's all right," he said, and bent down to pick up her blanket. He wrapped it around her again, and pulled her out of the way of Te'ijal and Galahad who were still running and shouting— and then he took her free hand and she was acutely aware of how sticky her palm was and she felt very foolish and clumsy, and he kissed her fingers and she felt even more stupid, and— now his lips probably tasted like blueberry syrup.

This cold was making her crazy.

He was frowning down at her, and pressing her hand between both of his, and then he put the back of his hand to her forehead, and drew his eyebrows together.

"Rhen," he chided, "you're running a fever."

She blushed guiltily. "It's just a stupid cold."

"You need rest," he said, looking very serious and resolute and also unduly— well, cute, and you know, maybe he was right because she really ought to have a better hold on herself.

But she tried huffing indignantly anyway. Unfortunately it came out as more of a cough, and his face did not change. Not even a little.

"It won't do anyone any good if you exhaust yourself," he said firmly.

So she tried glaring.

That was a stupid idea because he never could withstand her glares for very long, and now he looked flustered and his lips were parted and—

If nothing else, she had to get ahold of herself so that she didn't get him sick, too.

She sighed. "Fine! Fine! I'll rest. After I get more breakfast." She turned on her heel to do that, but he caught her shoulder and she whirled back around to face him— she had miscalculated and there was his face, right in front of her and very close and also very pink—

"Don't— don't step on the glass—" he stammered, and then he was interrupted—

"DARK CREATURE! WHEN WILL YOU CEASE TORMENTING ME?!" Galahad sped past them again, with Serpent Spawn close behind him, and the fragments of Dameon's plate crunched beneath his heavy boots—

"You are so appetizing when you flirt, lambchop!" Te'ijal answered, neatly leaping over the now-even-more-scattered glass and continuing her chase.

Rhen stared down at the glittering shards— there was no way she could leap over them like Te'ijal, especially not in her blanket. "Of all the days to not wear my stupid boots," she muttered angrily, and hit her forehead against the nearest thing— which was Dameon's chest. Which still had blueberry syrup all over it. And now there was syrup all over her forehead. Great. She pouted. "How am I supposed to get out of here?"

Dameon looked thoughtful, and then he looked embarrassed, and he had to clear his throat a couple times before he could say, "Well— I could— I could carry you out."

She almost laughed. Dameon, carrying her, with syrup all over his robes and her wrapped up in her stupid blanket with her toes poking out the ends— and his arms wrapped around her and his chin resting on her hair and—

"Can you even lift me?"

He blushed. "I— you— I've carried you before."

"What? No, you haven't!" That was impossible, she would remember that.

"After battles, when you pass out— I— I have to get you somewhere safe somehow! I— it isn't— um— it's just—" he stopped himself and seemed to catch his breath and looked down. "I'm sorry, I am being very foolish. I just— would you like me to carry you?"

Well. She would like that very much, but for all the wrong reasons.

"Yes, please."

Too late, it was out of her mouth.

He could lift her— she squeaked when her feet left the floor, and his robes were even more sticky than she had thought, and she knew she looked completely ridiculous cocooned in her quilt, with her empty plate balanced precariously in her lap and syrup smeared all over her and her face all pink— because of the cold, of course, and— but—

He was so soft and warm. She snuggled into his sticky chest and felt very safe and contented and she didn't even care much when Mad Marge sneered at them as she passed, and Lars shook his head and Elini smirked and Pirate John winked—

Actually that last one made her a little uncomfortable and she glared at him over Dameon's shoulder. And then Dameon turned the corner into the kitchen, which was now pretty much empty except for a considerable mess caused by the eating habits of a certain bar maid. Rhen moved to slide to the floor but instead Dameon set her neatly in a chair. And then— he was smiling at her and leaning down and she didn't know if she was terrified or elated—

But he only kissed her forehead. Then he laughed, and she noticed that he definitely had syrup on his mouth now.

"You are very sticky today," he told her. Then he looked at his robes. "I'm very sticky today!"

She started to laugh, but then she was coughing again and—

He rubbed her back, carefully, until her chest relaxed and the coughing stopped, and he mumbled, "I'm sorry Rhen, I— I wish I could do more."

"Don't be silly," she said hoarsely, absently rubbing at the syrup on her forehead with the hand that was less sticky.

"Here, let me—" he said, and before she could quite figure out what he meant he had turned around and was pumping water onto a dishtowel, and then he was turning back around and scrubbing her forehead with it, and then her hands, and she felt clean and also red. Definitely red.

She tried to think of something normal to say but all she could think of was syrup, and instead she said, "Don't forget you," and she reached out to poke his mouth—

And he was red, too, and finally, finally he scrubbed the syrup off his lips, and now she could stop thinking about it.

Actually not really. Actually not at all.

He had turned around again, taking her plate this time, and he was putting the last two pancakes on it— only two— and pouring the rest of the syrup on them, and then he slid the plate in front of her, and—

"I guess I should go change. And—" his eyes swept over her, "and I'll get you another blanket. That one's all— sticky—"

It was, but only on the outside, and it was probably going to get stickier when she ate these pancakes—

But he was gone before she could say any of that.

The pancakes had gotten cold by now. But they were still delicious.

She wanted more.

She glared at the empty counters— well, they were empty besides the mess. What she should do was help clean. It wasn't like Mad Marge was going to come back in and do it. And Te'ijal and Galahad were still running around the dining room table and they weren't likely to stop soon (she could hear their shouting, and Galahad's boots crunching the broken glass). Pirate John might be back to help straighten things up later, before lunch, and if he came Elini would come. And maybe Lars would help, if he was bored enough.

He probably wouldn't be.

She growled, and pushed her chair away from the little table. She didn't know why there were extra tables in the kitchen. For storage, maybe? For servants to eat their meals on? Who knew!

She choked back a cough and stood up. The floor was still freezing. She trudged towards the counters, her blanket dragging behind her—

Actually it was catching on something. She whirled around to un-catch it from whatever fiendish piece of furniture was impeding her progress—

It was just Softly, the cat, chasing after the end of the blanket like she might chase a string, or like she sometimes chased Dameon's robes.

"Softly!" Rhen protested. "My blanket is not a toy!"

"Meorw!"

Rhen gathered her blanket up around her, the same way she had to gather her skirts when she wore those poofy dresses which for whatever reason were so fashionable here in Sedona— but Softly just jumped after the blanket, purring. Purring!

"I'm trying to work, Softly!"

"Meow!"

She huffed angrily, but— the cat kept chasing her! "Can't you go pick on No or something?"

"Meow."

Rhen tried hiding behind a chair, and then climbing up on the chair— but Softly was still following her! She put her foot up on the table—

"Rhen, what are you doing?"

Dameon tried to rush into the room, but instead he smacked his head against the doorframe and looked very disoriented and unbalanced and like he was strongly considering falling over—

She jumped off the table, letting her quilt fall behind her (to Softly's great delight)— and she slipped under his arm. He was holding a clean blanket so this was no small feat, especially when her head was all cloggy.

"I've got you," she said, and then— she coughed violently into his chest. Some hero she was.

But he just said, "Thank you," and he rubbed her back again and pulled the new blanket around her— it was very warm, and soft— and Softly promptly left off playing with the sticky blanket and slinked over to bat at the new one.

Cough.

"You'd better sit back down," he said, but he was still leaning on her dizzily and she scoffed.

"You'd better sit down!"

Cough! Cough!

"Okay!" she relented. "I'd better sit down! But Dameon," she pouted, "Softly won't leave me alone!"

He looked down at the cat, who was now making a great show of trying to climb Rhen's blanket like a curtain— not that she was allowed to climb curtains, but she did, either way.

Dameon laughed, and bent down to pick up Softy. And Rhen felt a little betrayed, which was ridiculous, but—

"She just wants to play," he told her.

Rhen glared at the cat. The cat purred back, and rolled over in Dameon's arms to bat her tiny paws at Rhen.

No. Rhen was not going to be fooled by this show, this manipulation dressed as charm.

"Look at her!" Dameon cooed. He obviously was fooled by this show.

Rhen hmphed. Just because she wasn't cute like the cat!

She didn't want to look at Softly. She wanted to eat more, and to take a long nap in the sun and wake up feeling warm and not sick—

"She wants you to hold her, Rhen," Dameon said, and plopped the cat into her arms.

Rhen went rigid. She did not want to hold the cat

Softly's tail brushed against her face.

"Hey!" Rhen protested.

"Meorrw!"

Softly batted at a loose lock of Rhen's hair, and curled against her chest and purred and was very— well, soft. And warm. Which Rhen appreciated. And— she didn't really like glaring that much, anyway, so instead she smiled and looked up at Dameon. "I guess she is pretty sweet."

Dameon smiled and looked at least as cute as the cat, and then he said, "Thank you for getting her, Rhen. It— was very thoughtful of you."

Rhen blushed, and then he leaned down to kiss her cheek and she felt like her face was going to burn off— and him cleaning the syrup off his mouth had definitely not helped even a little, and she really, really needed to sit down now.

Cough! Cough!

Softly jumped out of her arms and she coughed harder and harder. "Dameon—"

He was already picking her up again, "It's okay, Rhen. You just need rest."

"It— hurts—" she coughed, huddling into the blanket, hiding her face in his chest. She knew she was being a baby. It was just a cold. But her throat was sore and her lungs were tired and—

"I know, Rhen," he was saying gently. "I'm sorry." And he really did look sorry, which made her feel a bit better even though everything still ached.

"Can you— can you make me some lemon water?"

"Lemon water?" He was putting her back in the chair, and sitting beside her.

"Lemon— cough— and water, and honey. Ma used to make it for me when I was sick."

"Lemon water," he repeated quietly to himself. "I can try that."

They had a huge crate of lemons— Mad Marge had insisted on it, yelling something about scurvy and landlubbers and other strange words of that sort. Rhen had objected to it at the time, seeing as someone was going to have to carry the crate, but she was glad to have it now.

Dameon found a jug, and he started squeezing some of the lemons into it. But he obviously had no idea what he was doing, and he kept dropping the lemons or getting the juice all over his hands instead of in the container. Rhen thought it was very cute and she couldn't help giggling at him, which made him smile and she liked that, too.

"I'm going to be all sticky again," he said, trying to squeeze another lemon. He was starting to get it, sort of—

And then it slipped out of his hands and onto the table. He grinned at her sheepishly. "Oops."

She laughed and picked up the lemon to hand it back to him.

But then her stomach growled.

And she got an idea that was either brilliant, or stupid.

She licked the lemon.

It tasted horrible, sour and— sour, just unforgivingly sour—

But the juice felt so nice going down her throat. So she licked it again.

Dameon stared at her. "Is that— good?"

"It's wonderful," Rhen said, now peeling the lemon to get a wedge.

He watched her eat it, and then, hesitantly, peeled out a wedge of the lemon he was squeezing. He slowly brought it up to his mouth, and bit down—

And his face puckered, which was an entirely new expression for him, and Rhen laughed and leaned towards him without thinking about it—

Cough! Cough!

She was going to lose a lung this way—

Cough!

"Rhen—" He stood quickly, and he was rubbing her back, and checking her temperature— "You really should be in bed."

Her chest was too sore to argue. She held out her arms and he picked her up, carefully, like she was made of flower petals, but she didn't mind today because she felt fragile. She felt like she might come apart starting at her lungs— and this was the third time that he was carrying her, and she thought maybe she'd have to start making him carry her everywhere.

Maybe not. Maybe she'd better make these decisions when she didn't have a fever. She ought to at least wait until she wasn't cocooned in a blanket like a very large and helpless caterpillar.

When he got to her room he had to fumble with the doorknob— she didn't know why she felt the need to slam her door this morning. But he got it open, and he carried her inside and laid her gently on her bed, and kneeled beside her to help arrange her blankets. And she was coughing again—

"The lemon water—" she remembered, and tried to sit up—

"I'll bring you a glass," he promised, brushing her bangs out of her face.

"But I'm— still hungry, too—"

"I'll bring you food." He didn't even look annoyed, that was the strange part. "Please, Rhen. Rest. You can go back to saving the world tomorrow."

"I don't know— if I can." So far it wasn't working out so well.

"I do." His voice was soft but his gaze was firm— he really believed she could, even after all the disasters she'd been a part of. Like today, today definitely counted as a disaster. But—

It was hard to doubt him, when he looked like that. And he was always beside her, helping her through all her messes, even when all he could do was rub her back and try to squeeze the juice out of a bunch of stupid lemons.

She settled back into her pillows. He was going to take care of her, her best didn't have to be enough for today.

She wanted to say thank you, for all of that, but she didn't know where to start and she didn't have the patience, so she held out her arms towards him and muttered, "Come here."

He did, very hesitantly, and she hugged him and kissed his cheek.

And if he could have just kept his mouth in a straight line after that, she might have been able to forget about it and sleep, but instead she thought of the little o his lips made for the rest of the day.