Aragorn was not surprised when Faramir bowed—it had taken much urging and reassurance to even get the man to address him by name when in private. Faramir slipped up often enough still that his bowing was not altogether alarming, though Aragorn's feelings on the matter oscillated between gloom that the man was not yet comfortable enough with him to drop the pretense entirely, and humor at the endearing nature of it—at the slight blush that would so often paint Faramir's cheeks when he would lift his head or meet Aragorn's eyes after.

Aragorn was very alarmed, however, when Faramir grew suddenly more pale and pitched forward. Imrahil shouted as Aragorn dashed forward to grab Faramir about the torso, the two of them stumbling back across the floor and sprawling there, Aragorn positioning his body below so that Faramir's head might be spared a dash against the wooden slats. Faramir's head rested against the padded shoulder of Aragorn's tunic, and Aragorn could not rise but for the dead weight of the body atop him. He wrenched a hand free from between them and laid it against Faramir's neck, sighing in relief at the steady (if not rapid) beat there.

Imrahil had stood still for a long moment, blinking down at them before moving to roll Faramir gently from the king's chest, flipping him to recline Faramir against his own. He looked politely away as Aragorn righted himself, though his pinched face betrayed that he was holding back laughter, even if it was layered over in worry. Though Aragorn did not know Imrahil well, the two of them had formed a kind of fellowship in the past months in their shared care for Faramir—Imrahil had helped Faramir as he gradually took up the late stewards duties upon his release from the healing houses, but Imrahil had also offered Aragorn advice when it came to matters of state and matters of Faramir. They had fought together at the Battle of the Morannon, but more so it had been Imrahil who summoned Aragorn to the healing houses when Faramir lay dying.

Aragorn leaned forward, laying his hand over Faramir brow. He felt the heat and damp there, yet when he moved his hands down to grasp Faramir's hands, he could feel the chill that held him even through the supple leather.

"He told me he was out last night in the storm, and fell asleep here without changing or lighting the fire. I fear if not for my knock, he would still be sleeping here, undiscovered," Imrahil said, eyes soft and turned down towards Faramir's face. "I told him not to worry about the council meeting, but you know how he is," Imrahil finished and Aragorn nodded.

"You did the right thing," Aragorn said, "things are not so desperate as they once were that meetings cannot be rescheduled." He sighed. It was so like Faramir to forgo any care for himself until it was too late. It did not take a healer to see that he was sick, and even now Aragorn could hear the slight wheeze of congestion with each breath taken.

"It is very like him," Aragorn said at length. "I had hoped this was behind us, but to know he slept here all night in the cold…" He tucked one hand beneath Faramir's neck and lifted him gently to his own chest. Imrahil stood to help him to his feet, and Aragorn laid Faramir upon the bed. His head lolled limply to the side when it fell back against the pillow, damp, dark hair falling forward into his face. Aragorn reached out and brushed it away.

"My lord?" Imrahil asked after a moment. Aragorn sighed once more, rubbing at his brow.

"Do you think you might head the meeting? I would not leave this to the healers, though I do not doubt their abilities," Aragorn said.

"I will make the appropriate excuses and give you a report by this evening," Imrahil bowed and made to leave the room though stopped there, seemingly caught at the entrance, eyes drifting back to the pale form on the bed.

"He will be alright," Aragorn said. "He has gone through worse before."

Aragorn watched the crinkles deepening at the edges of Imrahil's eyes for a moment, before the prince bowed once more and swept from the room.

—-

Faramir woke slowly to a low burning pain in his limbs and stifling heat. He tried to move his arms but found them pinned beneath a thick weight, and it was then that he felt cool liquid trickling down his forehead.

"You're awake," Aragorn said as he opened his eyes. Faramir blinked up at him as more liquid ran down his temple, cresting along the surface of his cheekbone. He extracted a hand with some difficulty from the pile of blankets which rested over him, reaching upward to dab there, but Aragorn encircled his wrist and reached out with his own hand, removing the cloth that sat upon Faramir's brow.

"There now, it is alright. I am only trying to lower your fever," Aragorn said, and Faramir continued to blink at him, slowly lowering his hand back down to the bed. He opened his mouth to talk but was instead beset by a fit of coughing, his throat scratching painfully with each hack, his chest heaving. He felt as if he could not draw air quickly enough, his eyes darkening at the edges with spots of black, and he clawed at the blankets that lay across his chest, blindly.

He could not breathe, he could not—

It was then that he felt the weight removed, arms snaked around him, and the world tilted forward. His head sat tucked beneath Aragorn's own as his body shook, and he felt then a gentle hand on his back, another wrapped loosely around his wrist, laying his palm against the surface of Aragorn's face, the stubble there rubbing against old callouses.

"Deep breathes, it's alright. Match me," Aragorn muttered, taking slow deep breaths, and Faramir struggled through gasps to match them, wheezing and heart hammering. It took many long moments before his breaths too were deep and calm, and his body ached and shook with exertion. He sat for a long while against Aragorn's chest, matching his inhales and exhales, though his breathing had slowed and he knew he should move away. Though his relationship with Aragorn had deepened over the past months, he felt often a pang of shaming inadequacy when they were together, as though one was lingering where they shouldn't—but then Aragorn would look at him in a certain way, would hold his hand absently under a desk, would pick him up and spin him and laugh while Faramir protested, and all the other feelings would be chased away to return in some lonelier hour.

He could not help but feel now that shame—to be here sick of his own doing, to be tended to by his king, when it should be the other way around. The ever present worry that Aragorn would see him for what he truly was and send him away.

"I'm sorry," Faramir whispered after a moment, throat scratchy and threatening coughs once more, though Aragorn only shushed him and ran fingers through his hair. It was then that Faramir's trembling turned slowly to shivers, and Aragorn shifted him slowly back to the bed. Though Faramir could feel his face heating, he was not sure he could have moved back easily on his own for his shaking. He noticed then, as Aragorn laid the blankets over him, that his clothing had been changed, and he felt his face heat once more.

"You do not have to tend me," Faramir began, but Aragorn shook his head.

"Why would I want to be anywhere else?" He asked, leaning once more over him to dab at his brow.

"It was my own folly," Faramir said, looking away. The window was frosted over still with snow, and he could hear outside the wind whistling against the stones. Was there anyone out there still, struggling against the cold, or had they all turned in, sheltered in warm homes and beds? He felt a warm finger hook beneath his chin and allowed his face to be turned back to the warmth of the fire-lit room. When Aragorn spoke his voice was soft and hushed yet held a grave seriousness that took hold of Faramir's attention and would not let go.

"You were but a loyal subject," he said. "I wish only that you did not feel the need to work yourself so. That you trusted me enough to tell me if you needed a break, or were feeling unwell."

"It's not that," Faramir said, though his heart stuttered, eyes drifting back to the storm outside

"Then what is it?'

There was quiet for a long time. The logs crackled and spat in the fireplace, and he could hear a servant hurrying down the hall outside. The room seemed colder then, like the chill had never left his body and instead settled inseparable in his bones.

"I only worry…" Faramir choked, eyes burning and throat tightening, and he had to pause to take a long drink from the glass Aragorn held out to him. He did not make eye contact as he spoke, and his words were quiet enough to be all but swallowed by the night time hush.

"I only worry that one day I will not be enough," Faramir said. "That my inadequacy will make itself plain to you, and you will no longer want me."

"Faramir…" Aragorn said, and his voice was somehow changed, a smooth heaviness like the slide of velvet over skin, and when Faramir looked to him he saw his eyes looked somehow wet then too, though they brimmed with no water—they softened instead, caught up everything inside them and held it there.

"You are everything," Aragorn said, and he leaned over Faramir and kissed him.

The next night found Faramir curled on Aragron's settee before a crackling fire, wrapped in clothing that was too large for him but blessedly dry and warm. Clothing that smelled like pine and parchment. Like Aragorn.

In his hands he clutched a mug of steaming tea, his head pillowed on Aragorn's lap. He could feel each rumble of the larger man's chest as Aragorn read, could feel the fingers which massaged his scalp and tugged the blankets higher when he shifted. He sank further into the blankets, sighing. Aragorn leaned down to kiss him, once, and when he made to pull back Faramir grabbed Aragorn's hair and tugged him back down. His mouth was warm, their beards scratching against each other, and when Faramir opened his mouth he felt hot tea slosh over his hand. He yelped, Aragorn jumped, and they laughed for a long while.