The Gentle Touch
By SenritsuBaroness
Roger cried out in his troubled sleep, clutching the sweat-soaked sheet as he writhed to and fro beneath it. The heat was almost unbearable; Roger's body poured sweat like a waterfall. Each spasm of pain wracked his body like an intense stab of heat; leaving him trembling like a leaf in the wind, unable to do nothing but quiver and wait for the next swell of pain to take his body.
A cool, patient hand gently wiped away the sweat on his burning forehead. A cool cloth was then pressed to his sweltering forehead; bringing soothing relief the instant it touched his simmering skin.
Roger tried to sigh, to utter a "thank you", but his throat was so parched all he could do was make choking noises. And with his eyes squeezed shut, he couldn't see who his caretaker was.
He felt those hands lift him into an upright position. A spark of pain started in his abdomen, and he croaked a moan in protest, but was instantly silenced as a gentle finger was placed against his lips. Those gentle hands began to move against his collarbone, carefully unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it away, exposing the sweat-soaked flesh of his chest. A soft towel was then pressed to his collarbone, as his caretaker began to gingerly wipe away the moisture from his skin.
A hand slid behind the back of his head, lifting it up from its sunken position. Roger started to moan a protest, but something cool was pressed to his lips. Roger greedily gulped the drink, the cool liquid bringing much relief as it sloshed down his desert-dry throat.
No longer in misery, Roger sighed as sleep came and took him to the world of dreams.
Dorothy placed the now-empty glass down on the nightstand and pulled the covers up around Roger's bare skin. It had been two days since Roger had gotten sick, and now, with Roger sleeping peacefully, it seemed as though he was on the path to feeling better. Still, though, anything could happen throughout the duration of the night, and with that thought in mind, Dorothy pulled up a chair, sat down, and neatly folded her hands in her lap.
Roger's eyelids slowly slid open as the world began to take shape around him. He sighed and stretched and discovered that he could move painlessly.
He slowly raised himself into a sitting position, the blanket falling away and revealing the tight, chiseled muscles of his chest and stomach.
Dorothy looked at Roger with her usual blank stare. The color had returned to Roger's skin and strands of his raven hair were matted to his forehead.
Roger sensed that he was not alone, and slowly turned around.
"Good morning, Roger," Dorothy greeted him. "How do you feel?"
"I feel fine," Roger replied, just as his stomach gurgled loudly. He smiled and added, "Just a little hungry."
It was then that he noticed that his chest was bare.
That's odd, he thought. I don't ever sleep without a shirt on.
"I took your shirt off," Dorothy announced.
Roger's eyebrow twitched. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she were psychic, he thought. Aloud, he asked, "Why?"
"Because you were sweating heavily and your shirt was soaked," Dorothy replied.
"Wha . . ." Roger began, but the memory of the night before came rushing back to him. The memory of someone's gentle hands pulling away his shirt and wiping away the sweat . . . those hands couldn't have belonged to Dorothy. They just couldn't! Why, Dorothy could lift Roger and toss him like an unwanted toy, and those hands that had cared for him, they had touched him as though he were crafted of the finest porcelain.
"You slept all night. That's the longest you've slept since you've been sick," Dorothy stated, and with that statement she justified all of Roger's doubts.
"So you were the one who cared for me," Roger blurted.
"Yes, I was," Dorothy answered as she stood up. "I'll go start breakfast now." Roger watched her go, and listened to the soft tapping sound her footsteps made on the carpet.
Roger was still in disbelief, even as he was going about his usual routine. How? How could she be that gentle? Why would she even care that he was sick? Those were the thoughts he found himself preoccupied with as he shed his pajamas and got into the shower.
The steamy hot water brought much-needed relief to Roger's sticky skin and scruffy hair. He ran his hands through his hair and hurried through his shower. He dressed just as quickly; for he assumed that if he were rushed, he wouldn't ponder about the night before and Dorothy's words to him. HOW? It just didn't make sense.
Roger was putting the finishing touches on his Windsor knot as he entered the dining area, just as Dorothy was pouring his cup of coffee.
Roger seated himself at the table, where a scrumptious breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon awaited him.
Dorothy looked at Roger and noticed a few stray strands of ebony hair down on his forehead. Roger likes to be perfect, Dorothy thought, or at least, he likes to try to be perfect.
Roger could sense that Dorothy was right beside him, but a strange wavering feeling kept his eyes straight forward. He was too uneasy to turn his head, but he didn't need to . . .
Dorothy carefully stepped in close to Roger, reached out, and . . .
By this point, Roger had begun to nervously eat his eggs, when that hand came out and . . . very gently brushed against his forehead. That touch, that gentle touch, confirmed all of Roger's doubts.
Almost instinctively, Roger reached up and grabbed Dorothy's wrist. Her eyes widened slightly and she gave a small gasp. Roger smiled; the element of surprise was on his side.
Giving a slight tug, he pulled Dorothy down to him; her face was now mere centimeters from his own.
"Thank you," he whispered, as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.
As soon as his lips met hers, a pleasant little jolt of electricity coursed through Roger's body. It wasn't enough to hurt him; just enough to excite him a bit.
Moments later, Roger parted from Dorothy. Dorothy looked at him and said those words Roger had gotten so used to hearing Dorothy say:
"You're a louse, Roger Smith."
~Fin