The Flu

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Valkyrie Cain had caught the flu. Of all the Vampires she'd fought, people she'd punched and world destruction scale disasters she'd averted, it was flu that knocked her down. Her body ached, her skin was clammy and she just felt so god damn hot. And it wasn't the kind of hot that could be solved by a cold shower or wearing less clothes. It was the kind of hot that radiated from her bones while at the same time leaving her shivery and weak. She hated it.

"If you keep scowling like that your face will get stuck," Skulduggery said cheerfully as he walked in carrying a tray of soup and juice.

"That's a myth," Valkyrie retorted. She was buried under a duvet on the sofa in Skulduggery's main living room, dressed in a football jersey and a pair of shorts. He'd been kind enough to go to the mansion and fetch some things for her after deciding she was too sick to look after herself.

"I made soup," he said proudly.

"You don't cook."

"You're welcome," he muttered. She grinned and struggled to a sitting position, making room for him to sit down. He handed her the tray and set the juice on the table by his elbow.

"Where'd you learn to make soup?"

"I found a recipe online. It's chicken." She tried a spoonful and felt her eyes widen.

"This is actually good. If it tastes like this while sick I'd love to try it again while my tastebuds are working."

"Are you saying you want me to cook for you more?"

"Do you think you're good enough to keep cooking?"

"I'm good at everything I do." He cocked his head, watching her with those hollow eye sockets. "If you want to shower me with praise then yes, I can cook more often."

"How weird that a man with no tastebuds can make better food than I can," she mused, shovelling more of the soup down. It was hot and nice and helped to dispel some of the shivers wracking her body.

"I am something of a wonder." He brushed an imaginary speck of lint from the sleeve of his suit and sat back against the cushions. Valkyrie looked at him. "What?" She kept looking at him. He waited a moment, and then he sagged. "Fine." He uncrossed his legs and she grinned, stretching out again. "I don't like being a foot stool," he said.

"If you hated it so much you wouldn't let me do it."

"Or perhaps I feel sorry for you because you're sick?"

"Nah, I think you like it really." She finished her soup. "I think you like feeling needed."

"You think you make me feel needed?"

"You say all the time how you like having me follow you around."

"Yes, to remind me how amazing I am."

"Like you could ever forget that," she snorted, rolling her eyes.

"With you around I never have to worry about forgetting. One look at you and I'm reminded how much you value having me as a mentor, role model and style guide." She arched an eyebrow at him, ready to insult him, but she was cut off by a cough that hurt her lungs and burned her throat. He passed her a box of tissues and waited until she was done coughing to give her the juice. She took a sip and sat back with a smile, grateful for the fact that his actions were so automatic. Taking care of her didn't register as a chore to him. He simply did it because it was what she needed.

"What, no insult? You really must be ill."

"Yeah," she answered. "I must be." He cocked his head and she knew, even though he had no face, and he had no lips, that he was smiling.

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