He knew she watched over him, though for how long he wouldn't have been able to say. For sixteen hours he floated in and out of reality, dragged down by fever, pulled up again by the feel of her cool hand on his brow. Whenever he surfaced, all the aches and pains made themselves known, making him sink back into the dark just for the momentary relief.
He knew she spoke to him, though what exactly she said he couldn't remember. All he knew was her voice kept him fighting back the dark that threatened to overtake him, had him struggling to open his eyes and see her face, just once more.
Every now and then he would feel her lift his head and cool, gloriously cool water would slide down his dry throat, which had been ravaged by swallowing the ocean's salty water. Or sometimes it wouldn't be water at all, but some strange tonic that would put him into an easy, dreamless sleep, easing the pain for just a while.
He wanted, very much, to open his eyes, to fight his way out of this sleep-like healing state that the fever had put him in. He wanted, more than he could explain, to see her face again, to hear her voice clearly, the voice of the woman who had so quickly become his savior. And there was no doubt in his blurred mind that she was his savior. He knew, sure as anything, that she'd been caring for him.
Whenever the fever sent chills down his spine, he'd feel a new layer of heat wrapped around him. Whenever the dreams had him mumbling things he couldn't hold back, he would feel her hand running soothingly over his hair. She cared for him as a mother might, and he could only be grateful.
And with that gratitude was a desire to look this mysterious woman in the eye and thank her. It frustrated him to no end, even in this state, that he was incapable of doing even that.
So when, approximately sixteen hours after falling at her feet, Brody's fever broke and his eyes opened, he simply stared at her for a moment. Of course, part of that moment had to be used to clear the cobwebs from his brain, to force himself to focus. And once he managed to focus, he felt his heart skip a beat.
She was curled up in the chair beside the couch, her head tilted away from the late afternoon sun that shone through the window. There was a book in her lap, a cold cup of tea at her elbow, and a brown cat dozing at the foot of the chair. And she was, even he could see, completely asleep.
Drawing a hand out from the cocoon of blankets he was wrapped in, Brody ran a hand over his face, winced when his fingers rubbed at bruises and bandages. Even the simple movement of raising his arm to his face suddenly seemed to take the same effort as climbing Mt. Everest. Every inch of his body was heavy and achy, unwilling to move.
Though he'd made no sound, he watched her eyes drift open, lock directly on him. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, he flat on his back on the couch, she sitting up in her chair. And then she sighed, rising silently and gracefully to her feet.
"Have you decided to stay with us this time, then?" She asked, and he was sorry for the fatigue he saw in her eyes, for the shadows beneath them. But he said nothing, merely continued to watch her as she walked over, rested a hand on his brow for a moment.
"You're fever has gone down, at least. And your eyes are clearer." She spoke softly, in a drifting voice that made it seem like her mind was elsewhere.
Though the move cost him energy he didn't have to spare, he reached up, took her hand in his, hot against cold. Though her hand stiffened in his, he held on, locked his gaze with hers once more.
"Who…who are you?" His voice was raspy, but still understandable, and she sighed again before drawing her hand away.
"I'm Violet Baudelaire. This is my island." She glanced over when the cat leaped up onto the arm of the couch, began to tread on top of Brody's feet. With a low murmur, she reached over and drew the cat into her arms, petting it to soothe.
"No, Quigley, you mustn't step on strangers." Showing more affection for the cat than she ever would for a human, she kissed the top of its head before setting it on the floor, shooing it along. When she focused on Brody again, he was smiling at her in a way that made her want to squirm.
"Hi, Violet, I'm Brody. And I think I'm in love with you."
And it was then, while the afternoon sun shined through the window and her cat washed itself beneath the coffee table, that Violet Baudelaire wished she'd never opened the front door.