She tolerates his hovering but when she's finally given reprieve from the infirmary all she wants to do is take a long hot bath and soak in the silence. Only it's not as comforting as she expects. The water grows cold too quickly, the suds deflate leaving her barely covered and her body is simply too exhausted to try and amend the discomfort.
It's then she realises just how much she misses him.
His consistent vigil, the warm voice pooling by her side... it made her feel safe and she knows when the shivers start they aren't just from the drop in temperature. She's never been good at accepting help, letting people breach her defences and he's done it in the most intricate of ways, creating thousands of tiny cracks that have built over time to completely shatter her resolve. The worst part, he's not even aware that he's done it. She doesn't know whether that's a blessing or a curse but decides on the former because the latter presents too many inappropriate contemplations.
She wants him, but she's not allowed to admit that.
Sliding down further in the tub she folds her arms in an attempt to keep the chills at bay. It helps a little but the compromise is a sharp twinge in her side and despite the pain she holds the position, knowing eventually it will drive her to move. She hates being this weak, hates that her body is so reluctant to cooperate but there's nothing she can do except wait.
Time will heal the wounds, it always does... the physical ones at least.
The stab intensifies and she wonders if it's because of the bruising or the fact that she's feeling particularly vulnerable at the moment. It isn't surprising really. She's exhausted and while the danger of falling asleep in the bath is slim, she decides not to discount it as a possibility.
She really should try and get out.
The idea is eventually dismissed and she's ready to succumb to whatever ailment befalls her first when a soft knock sounds at the door. Given she's in her own personal en-suite she can pretty much narrow the intruder down to one of two colleagues bold enough to enter and since only one of them -the substantially less hairy one- has been her shadow for the past week, it's a safe bet to assume with certainty it's Will.
Her suspicions are confirmed when his voice, warmer than she can remember, muffles thickly through the door and for once she doesn't mind that her attempt at reassurance fails miserably. At this point she's grateful she doesn't have the strength to reject his help because honestly death by rubber ducky isn't how she'd like to be remembered.
She realises she's lost a few seconds when a towel suddenly enters her peripheral vision and she keeps her gaze averted, trying to hide her embarrassment but the note of fear in his tone makes her immediately regret the detachment. She forces herself to look at him, taking in his concerned expression with a sharp breath. There's an intensity behind his eyes, emotion she can't let herself acknowledge and it snaps her guilt into overdrive.
Finally she pushes out that she's fine, just tired.
Of course he doesn't believe her and she can't dispute his point; that if she really was fine he wouldn't have found her nearly catatonic in the tub. But regardless of that fact, she tries to fake reassurance as he wraps the towel around her shoulders and all but pulls her out of the water. It's difficult but she grants it in a small smile, until she realises the next move is to climb over the smooth porcelain. He's a step ahead of her though and in one swift motion she's in his arms, barely noticing the pain as her fingers clasp tightly around his neck.
It's an odd sensation, being essentially naked against his chest but he's managed to keep her modesty intact and so she lets the mortification slide.
Perhaps when she's more alert she'll even grant him the satisfaction of being right, admit that she should have stayed in the infirmary longer. Because at the moment, as he lowers her gently onto the bed, all she has to offer is compliance and somehow it doesn't quite feel like enough.
The mattress dips under her weight and she curls into the padding, shivering slightly as he draws the feather doona up over her shoulder. No longer exposed she starts to feel secure, safe and the notion intensifies as he spoons behind her feeding his warmth through the layers. She's tired, far too tired to question the wisdom in letting him stay. Also he seems to need the contact as much as she does, whispering soft reassurances that are clearly for both their benefit.
She hates appearing weak but sometimes, on the rarest of occasions...
In moments just like this one.
It does feel nice to be taken care of.
OO
OO
AN: So it was meant to be a one-shot but reviews maketh the story :P