Written for Day One of Sicktember. Prompt: Fever
Some Stubborness
Cosette was never stubborn. When she was a child, being away from the inn and its keepers made her too relieved to put her foot down at everything. It broke Valjean's heart that part of her easygoingness came from the fact that she had to be. It was easier to raise her with her bubbly personality.
Cosette was never stubborn until she got sick.
As a child, she ignored her miserableness. She completed her chores (Valjean made sure they were fairly simple; not too much for a little girl), only slower than usual. Cosette didn't make any sign she was ill. Unless she couldn't hide her coughing any longer or she vomited. It worried Valjean regularly that she might be sick, and he didn't know.
But once he pointed out how many times Cosette sneezed in the past hour and asked her if she wasn't feeling her best, she nodded and let him take care of her. She maintained her poise. Valjean did everything he could to help her feel better.
She was fifteen now. Her days of slaving at the end were long over. Perhaps, though, it was something about those days that caused her stubbornness. Cosette was stubborn differently now - yet it was very much the same.
"Papa, I can't be sick," Cosette said in a weak voice as he drew his hand back. She made it sound like her being sick was the most ridiculous suggestion she'd ever heard. "It's probably just hay fever."
"You have a fever," Valjean replied, "Now, get to bed."
Cosette looked up at him through her dark eyelashes. She had tucked herself into a corner of the sofa with a book. That was another thing about Cosette. She never took up much room. At night, she occupied a sliver of her bed. When she was younger, she spread her dolls everywhere she could. It made her feel protected. Cosette sniffled and tossed the blanket off her. She made a show of picking her book up again.
Valjean swiped her book away. Her jaw dropped before her lips turned into a small pout. Valjean ran a hand through her hair. She had put little effort into it today; he noticed. He kissed her forehead.
"You can read in bed," he said.
Cosette reached up for the book, though she gave up within a moment. She wrapped her arms around herself. Valjean knew his daughter. This was not a protest.
"Put on your nightgown and then, and only then, will I give you back your book."
With some hesitation (when she wanted to be stubborn, she put her every effort into it), Cosette stood. "I'm not sick." She paused. "I just want my book back."
He almost laughed. Cosette stormed off to her room, which was hardly storming off. She was too gentle for that, and she knew it. Valjean gave her some time to dress before knocking at her door. At her faint, "Come in," he entered.
Cosette laid underneath the covers, with a shawl sprawled across her shoulders. Though he recognized the violet morning dress she was wearing earlier. She looked up at him with the eyes of a mischievous child who knew they had done something wrong.
"I am in bed," she pointed out, with a sugar-toned voice, "Can I have my book back?"
She would have to fall asleep eventually.
"Rest," Valjean warned as he gave the book back.
As he turned away, Cosette opened the book. But when he returned - not five minutes later - she was sound asleep. Valjean laughed to himself. He placed the book, taking extra care to mark the page she was on, near the bed and kissed her forehead.
Just some cheesy fluff because I am so soft for Cosette and Valjean. Thanks for reading!