A/N: Hey everyone. I'm henceforth marking this story as 'Complete', since my interest in JxA from writer's perspective has waned a lot since I first joined this fandom, and I have no inclination to continue this any more. Some of the miniature story arcs I had planned may appear as separate oneshots though, so keep an eye out for those.

Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and especially thanks to those of you have taken the time to review. It means a lot. :)

This one is set just after the episode 'Revelation'.

-The Princess and the Genius-
Sickness (2.0)

Everything is darkness.

She has hidden herself in layers as though it will make the world unable to find her here; a hooded sweater underneath blankets swathed in the oppressive blackness of a darkened room, without even a crack of light through the curtains to split the shadows. Aelita breathes stale air and chokes down the last of her sobs, and curls in on herself as she once did, long ago, and longs for a time without memory.

Today has not been a good day. Nor was the day before it, or the day before that. She is tired of the fight, exhausted; it's like a sickness, the way it numbs her through and through, chips away until she doesn't want to think any more, as though - ironically, now all has come to light - as though she has aged decades.

Aelita lies still for a long time, until there is a knock on the door, soft and hesitant.

She ignores it. Counts the moments in long inhales, even longer exhales.

The door opens and even swathed in blankets she sees the overspill of light from the hallway outside, before it's quickly drawn to again, and there is the padding of soft feet across the carpet. She knows who it is, and just as she's thinking this he speaks, a barely audible whisper. Just her name, nothing more, which is a relief because she's sick, too, of platitudes; small attempts at comfort between five people who all badly need comforting themselves.

Jérémie rests one hand atop the blankets. Aelita moves her hand under them to meet his, fingers curling against the fabric to press lightly against his own. She listens to the soft telltales sounds of him kicking off his shoes, sighing quietly, settling himself on the edge of the bed, all still in the dark. They wait for a long moment, another drawn-out silence fraut slightly with tension. Aelita asks herself, what of Jérémie? Am I sick of him, too?

Maybe he's wondering the same thing, or maybe he too is exhausted and out of words, because all he does is sit. Contemplative, patient.

And eventually Aelita shrugs out of her cocoon, reaching out until her palm meets his face, cupping his cheek with a tenderness she is thankful she still knows how to give.

She feels the curve of his lips as he smiles, swings her legs around so that they are entwined, and presses him back onto the mattress where they lie in dark warmth, listening to the rhythm of their own peaceful breathing. The rise and fall of chests, the expansion and contraction of lungs, oxygen dissolving into blood. The steady beat of life continuing against all odds. The thought cheers her and some of the darkness in her own tired soul begins to ebb away.

"Aelita-"

"Ssh. Just enjoy the moment."

He laughs slightly. The pillows rustle as he nods. A surge of affection rushes through her, sudden and startling.

And she is still sick but never of him, never of him.