Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the title.
Summary: He was sick, so sick, and no one came. Now, she's here.
This one's for Katie, because I feel like it.
Then There Was YouHe is sick, so sick, sick and hot, so hot that his head feels full to bursting with the pain and the heat. He can't think of anything but the feel of the heat and the pain in his head and throat and chest.
He can't see anything in the room around him but fuzzy reminders of furniture and belongings. He can't even see clearly the chair next to his bed that he knows is there. If he concentrates hard enough, he can make out the bureau across the way, with the china washbasin on top. But his head starts to pound and the room tilts sideways, so he closes his eyes and relaxes against the sweat-soaked sheets.
He coughs, and the roughness of the action scrapes harshly against the dry and tender flesh of his throat.
He is rarely sick, almost never, and he can remember only once before that he was this sick. As a boy, when he had been sick all alone on the hard floor and no one had come.
He remembers it now, relives it, half inside the dream and half aware that it is a memory.
He was sick, so sick.
Sometime during the night, he'd rolled off of the hard pallet he sleeps on in the small room, and now he was cramped against the cold stone floor. He didn't mind the cold, though; against the raging fire of his skin, the almost abrasive coldness of the stone felt comforting. It was the hardness of the stone he abhorred, the hard stone that pressed against his fragile bones and magnified the all-over ache of a high fever, amplified it and sent it flying back at him.
He was thirsty, so thirsty. He swallowed convulsively, dry throat scratching against dry throat, and wished for water. Not that it would do any good to wish for water when no one was there to give him some.
He tried to think about anything, about anything other than the heat and the pain and the thirst. He tried not to think about the beating he would get when he went back to the kitchens after missing time.
He tried to think about her. She was perfect, lively, beautiful. Just like royalty was supposed to be. Wherever you went in the palace, you heard her laughter, piping and sweet. He wished she were here for him now, here to worry over him.
They'd met once, only once, before. Oh, he'd seen her, idolized her, and perhaps she'd seen him as well, but they'd never spoken until two months ago.
He'd slipped, carrying the tea in the hall, and sent the tray crashing to the ground, shards of china littering the ground. The ivory carpet was stained with tea, and he knew in that instant that it would never come out, no matter how hard the maids or he would scrub at it.
The cook, that big fat man who all the boys called 'Czar Freight Train,' (on account of the tyrannical way he worked the kitchen boys and the sound he made when he blew his nose), had been furious. The cook had screamed until he was red in the face, and when he thought his drudge was no longer listening, he twisted the boy's arm behind his back, so that he cried out in pain. He received a blow for that scream, too.
"I'll show you reason to scream." The cook had cried, dragging the boy out of the palace and out to the trickling stream that ran behind. The boys often stole away back here to dip their feet in the cool water.
"I'll teach you to drop tea trays." He had hauled the boy over his head, turning the boy's stomach queasy with height and fear. The cook had then let go of him.
He'd squeezed his eyes shut for the fall, trying not to scream and get another beating for his efforts. Then, all thoughts of screaming went away, for he had no breath.
He'd landed in the brook, icy water above, below, all around. He had maneuvered himself into a sitting position, spluttering as the water receded to chest level.
He saw her before the cook did. The cook was busy cackling at the sight of the boy shivering in the stream. The girl, behind him, threw the boy a wink before shoving the knees out from under the massive cook. She wasn't big or strong enough to throw him, but it did the trick. Startled, he fell, and once off balance, he rolled all the way into the brook, where he made a large splash. The boy just had time to get out of the way without being crushed.
"That's for picking on the serving boys just because they're smaller than you are." She'd cried at the cook. It was the cook's time to splutter in the cold wetness of it all now.
She held a delicate hand out to meet the boy's benumbed one and help him up the slippery bank.
"Are you all right?" She asked, the first words she'd said to him. Her voice was musical, sweet, alive, just like her. She was beautiful, ethereal in that moment.
At the time, he had just nodded wordlessly, mouth gaping, eyes wide. Now, he wished he'd said something, anything, that would have made her come to see him again.
She'd smiled, as if she understood why he was nervous with her. She couldn't have, he knew- she was a princess, and he was a kitchen boy. She would never be able to understand his lot in life.
"What's your name?" She asked, that cute little half smile still painted upon her lips.
He was spared from answering by a shrill call from the direction of the palace. It sounded like the girl's tutor had discovered her missing.
"Oh, poo." She had grumbled, stepping back away toward the voice. "I must go. You'll want to sit by a fire until you're warm!" She called over her shoulder as she sprinted, lace underskirt fluttering behind her. "Bye!"
And she was gone. He had trudged up to the palace by himself, the cook still fussing over himself by the spring.
He was brought back to the present by a cough, dry and brittle. He couldn't stop coughing, now that he'd started. Afterward he lay there panting for a minute or so, trying to get his breath without coughing again.
'Are you all right?' Those had been her first words to him, and they had become his mantra. He repeated them now, softly, under his breath, and pretended she had come and was asking him now. But dreams are dreams, and nothing came of pretending they were real.
It wasn't only that she had spoken to him. It was that she had cared. She had cared if he was all right. Her first words could've been 'You! Boy! Pick up that pen.' And he wouldn't have treasured them quite as much. But she had asked if he was all right, and she had meant it. She, a Grand Duchess, had cared whether he, a mere servant, had been all right.
He wondered now if she had ever asked after him. Had she ever wondered whether anything had happened to him? He doubted it, but hoped for it, too.
"Are you all right?" He whispered to himself, along with her name, breath warm against hot skin and cold stone, and wished she were here, now, to care about him.
She is here now, and she cares for him. She worries for him. She loves him. She puts a cool cloth on his head and frets with it, positioning it until it is just right.
She wants him well, wants him whole, can't bear to see him sick like this. He stirs restlessly in his fever sleep, and she shifts pillows to keep him comfortable. She wonders what he dreams of.
His brow is furrowed, mouth moving, but no words she can hear issue from his throat. His eyes fly open, and she looks into them, unseeing brown depths, and knows he is delirious, doesn't see her, is looking at some other place, some other time.
His hand shoots out and clutches the front of her dressing gown. "Anastasia." He whispers, and she knows he isn't talking to her.
"Yes, baby," She murmurs nonetheless. "I'm here. I'll always be here. You can relax now, I'm here."
And he does relax. He fades back into sleep, fevered hand letting go of her clothes and dropping to his side once more, eyes closing, smiling. He looks peaceful, peaceful like he hasn't been in days.
She smiles, and knows the worst is over.
Later, when he is well, he will look back on it fuzzily, the way memories are when you are very ill. He will almost remember parts of it, other parts floating away into the Neverland of lost memories, gone forever.
He will remember enough to know that he had been delirious, old memories and new all weaving together like a multicolored cloth.
He will turn confusedly to his wife where they sit on the porch. He will ask his question, half knowing the answer. "Did I call for you?" he will ask.
"Yes." She will reply, with a little half smile he has loved since he was small.
"And you were there." He will say breathily, love and resolution clouding his eyes.
"And I was there." She will whisper even more breathily into his ear. She will then take his hand and they will scamper up to their room, closing the door with a soft thud behind them.