Afternoon Again

It was morning again when he woke, the blankets tangled around him and covered in sweat. His dreams had been full of her brown eyes tempting him farther and farther into a dark forest until he was thoroughly lost. From the little room with the tub and W.C. in it came the sound of retching. Shuddering for a moment, he got up and rubbed the grit from his eyes. His warm feet left little moons of steam on the wooden floor until the first few steps cooled them. He walked into the bathroom to find his wife retching into the porcelain bowl, her face damp with sweat.

He rushed forward, not giving it a second thought. As the retching paused and he took her hair in his hands and held it back from her face. Pulling a piece of twine from his pocket, he tied it away in a messy bun, rested his palm on her forehead. She was hot. Not her usual smoldering heat, but hot in a different way, like a furnace over-fueled. Her skin was tinged in green and her cheeks were pale.

"Here you are love, it's all right." His cool hands circled her neck, feeling the unnatural heat there too and she shivered, and then leaned over the pot again, dry-heaving as nothing came up. She coughed and a few tears leaked from her eyes.

"Let's get you back into bed, all right?" He didn't know where this was coming from; maybe the countless number of times she had looked after him. She nodded and tried to stand up on wobbling legs, but her knees buckled. How she had managed to make it to the bathroom was beyond him. Carefully, he lifted her hot little body into his arms and carried her back to her bedroom. Tossing the blankets back, he laid her on the sheets and covered her up. She had told him more than once that one had to 'sweat out' the fever. Laying there on the bed, she curled up on her side miserably and sweated, occasionally pausing to dry-heave into the bucket that Mr. Todd had brought for her. He got up only once during the first few hours to bring her a bucket and a glass of water. She slept little and restlessly, though her eyelids betrayed her exhaustion.

Her sickroom was silent for most of the day, until about the afternoon, when she began to shiver violently, teeth chattering, limbs shaking as she tried to keep warm. His hand on her forehead proved that she still ran a fever, but her skin was clammy and no matter the number of blankets he piled onto her bed, she could not seem to get warm. Seeing no other solution, he removed his shoes and vest, setting them on the chair at her bedside. Carefully, he slid underneath the covers and wrapped her in his arms. Her body was aflame, hot as it fought off whatever illness consumed her, but still she shivered, curling herself against him to try and soak up his body heat. Despite his icy hands, he was still human and gave off warmth. Pressing as much of herself against him as she could, she drank in his warmth as though he was a tall glass of water after a trek through the desert.

As time passed, her shivering lessened, though she did not let go of him, nor did he release the arms he had wrapped around her, keeping her warm. The dry-heaving had ceased, and her lips were cracked and dry. Her eyes remained glassy with fever.

"Water."

The request was a rasping whisper, trying to form words with a parched throat and her tongue paper-dry. Immediately, Mr. Todd sat up and helped her sit a little, held the glass to her lips, not allowing her to gulp the water. She would make herself sick that way, he knew this. He held the glass at an angle so she had to sip, not allowing her to upend the entire contents of the glass into her mouth. Though she fought for more water, he was firm, allowing her to sip at a gentle pace until the glass was empty. Rapidly putting something into her already-upset stomach would do no one any good. This was proven as she moaned softly, curling into herself as her stomach, regretting that she had drank the water. She did not throw up again, but instead shuddered in alternate fits of burning heat and shivering cold. When she was hot, he sat by her bedside, when she was cold he lay beside her, keeping her warm.

By the evening, her fever had broken and she fell into a light sleep, twitching at any sounds outside. It was only once she had settled into slumber that he dared leave her bedside to wolf down some buttered bread, cheese, and a few scraps of leftover chicken that Mrs. Todd had planned to leave out for the feral cat that frequented their porch at unholy hours of the night. There was some chicken, uncooked, in the icebox and he filled a kettle with water and set it to boil, rooting through the pantry to find ingredients to put in a soup for his ailing wife. There were three small potatoes and an onion in the corner bottom cupboard. Sighing, he headed back to the icebox and checked the rafters for dried vegetables and herbs that his wife had begun to hang in preparation of winter.

Within an hour, Mr. Todd had concocted a reasonably tasty-smelling soup. Draining a few ladles of broth, he poured the broth into an earthenware mug and carried it to his wife's room. Her eyes were open when he came in, though not glassy, a good sign.

"How're you feeling?" He mumbled, suddenly no longer confident. She was awake, and he had to answer for his tenderness, the things he had done to care for her.

"Not very well," she replied, her voice raspy from thirst and weak from exhaustion.

"There's broth here. It'll give you strength." He offered the mug like a child did to his mother, with a mixture of hope and nervousness.

Her trembling hands wrapped around the mug and she nearly spilled it. Carefully, he helped her raise it to her lips and sip, sip, sip. He only allowed her a little, ensuring that it didn't upset her stomach. After an hour of no vomiting, no negative effects from the broth, he allowed her to drink more. This continued a few times until haltingly, she tried to get up to relieve herself. Her legs wobbled, barely holding her. With an arm around her waist and his face red, Mr. Todd helped his wife to sit on the wooden seat of the porcelain bowl. She lifted her skirts and he averted his eyes. There was no comfortable way for this to be done. Once she had finished, he helped her stand and was dismayed to find that urine ran down her leg, spotting her nightdress. Her face was beet-red, and she looked at the floor, the little puddle of leftover urine from not being quite prepared to leave the toilet.

Neither one of them said anything for a moment, but in a gesture of uncharacteristic tenderness, Mr. Todd lifted his wife into the tub and fetched a rag, mopping the tiny puddle up, then wiping it over with hot water and a little soap as she sat in the tub. Once the floor was clean, he turned to his wife.

"Love, we need to get you cleaned up." It was gentle, it was sensitive, and she looked into his face, exactly the same and yet so radically different than the twisted mask of the demon barber, she nodded. Together, they removed her nightgown and he did his best to avert his eyes, respect her modesty. He ran the tub water until it was warm and filled it a little, shoving the little rubber stopper into the drain. She smelled of sweat and illness, and without recoiling, he wetted a cloth and rubbed it over a bar of soap, handing it to her. She cleaned herself most of that way, scrubbing in a manner both steady and a little weak. When she had finished, he re-wetted the cloth, rubbed more soap on it, and pulled her hair from her neck. In slow, careful circles, he washed her neck, her shoulders, her back. He was gentle, he was careful; he wondered to himself how he had gotten to this point. Seemingly out of nowhere, he had begun to feel something. The night before he had experienced lust, and now, this strange quiet caring, the silent tenderness puzzled him.

As he washed his wife's back, not asking for anything more than for her to allow him to help, he tried to remember Lucy and found with a twinge of regret that he could not remember ever having something like this with her. She had always been on a pedestal and he, mere mortal that he was, was not allowed to get closer than she permitted. He drained the tub and ran the tap into a bucket, which he used to wet his wife's hair. He was a barber and he knew exactly what to do. He saw the muscles of her back and shoulders relax as he massaged soap into her wet curls, rinsed them, and washed them again. He could not remember a time when he had particularly wanted to touch her hair, but as the silky curls (now clean and soapy) ran through his fingers, he regretted never doing so before.

Running his fingers through her long, dark locks, he combed out the knots and tangles. She tilted her head back, making it easier for him to comb through her hair, and as his fingers massaged her scalp, she gave a little hum of contentment. He lifted the bucket, tilting her head back as he poured the water over her head, using one hand to carefully rinse the soap from her hair. When it was all done, He helped her rinse off her body and then ran the tub full of water, pouring a little scented oil into the water from his barber's kit. She laid there, eyes half closed, silently relaxing in the tub as he fetched towels and a fresh nightgown and underclothes for her, no longer bothering to wonder why he was doing this. It needed to be done and so he took care of it.

Once the bathwater had cooled, her sweat-soaked bedclothes had been changed, the soup was hot again on the stove, and her fresh nightgown was ready for her, Mr. Todd pulled the plug of the claw-foot tub, a strange, eccentric addition to their little cottage. He dried her hair first, so it would not drip all over, getting the floor and her dry nightgown wet. Wrapping her in a towel, he turned away as she carefully dried herself. She needed help dressing, and with the same gentle sensitivity that he had looked after her and helped her wash, he carefully assisted her in getting her arms through the sleeves as his nimble fingers fastened the buttons for her.

Once she was dry, dressed, and wrapped in a blanket, he helped her to the kitchen table to sit down. There were already two bowls on the table and he ladled soup into them, fetching spoons and filling a glass with water for her. He drank nothing, merely watched her meekly eat her soup with a great show of restraint. He was certain that the only reason she could barely hold herself up was because she hadn't eaten anything all day and furthermore was probably lightheaded and dehydrated from the vomiting. Once she was finished with the soup, she sat back in her chair, sipping water as he helped himself to a second bowl of soup, keeping an eye on her.

"Are you still hungry?" he asked, but she shook her head with a soft smile, the first one he had seen in…he could 't actually remember the last time he recalled her smiling like this—as though she was happy.

YAY ANOTHER CHAPTER! IF YOU ALL ARE REALLY REALLY GOOD, I'LL GIVE YOU ANOTHER THIS WEEKEND, SEEING AS I HAVE VERY LITTLE LIFE AND EVEN LESS INTEREST IN STUDYING. PLUS, A LOT OF MY FRIENDS ARE AWAY. SO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT AND REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! HAPPY WEEKEND!