Note: ThornyRose, you requested a sickfic, and at long (long, long) last, here it is!
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Deryn is ill.
It happens so rarely that Alek was, at first, inclined to believe her protestations that the sniffing and coughing meant nothing. But when he awoke this morning, her skin was pale, her forehead searingly hot, and her eyes dull and glazed.
Of course she'd tried to get up. Of course she'd tried to tell him she was hale and hearty, even as she put one hand on the wall for balance.
"You're ill," he'd said.
"No I'm not, Dummkopf," she'd said… then sneezed explosively into the sleeve of her dressing gown.
He'd called for the doctor at once, and spent the time before the man's arrival trying to convince Deryn that she was better off waiting in bed.
Of course she hadn't.
Now he stands impatiently at the foot of the bed, watching as the doctor examines his wife, who is impatiently enduring the pokes and prods and requests to inhale deeply and exhale slowly.
It had been somewhat of a relief, years ago, to learn that Darwinist physicians didn't always use ghastly fabrications. This one, for example, uses the same sort of black bag and stethoscope as his family's physician in Austria.
"Is it influenza?" Alek asks, finally voicing the fear that's gripped him since her first sniffle.
"Barking spiders," Deryn says, scowling. "It isn't sodding influenza."
The doctor finishes his examination and begins packing up his things. "Correct. You'll be pleased to know, Mr. Hohenberg, that your wife is only suffering from a bit of the common cold."
"As some of us have suggested already," Alek says, looking at Deryn, and, he's sure, doing a terrible job of hiding his relief.
She sneezes into her handkerchief. Loud and unladylike, and she snuffs and swabs at her nose like an airman when she's done. "Aye, all right, maybe I am."
The doctor closes his black bag with a snap. "The illness should resolve itself within the next few days. Make certain that she rests," he says to Alek. "And she should eat and drink warm things. Nothing too taxing. Soup would be excellent."
"Yes, of course," Alek says. "Thank you, Doctor, for venturing out on such a day."
The doctor shakes hands with him, and Alek escorts him to the door and out into the cold, grey rain of March in London. Then he returns to his ill wife… who is attempting to climb out of bed.
"God's wounds, you may be the worst patient in history," he says. "Lie down. It won't kill you; I daresay you'll feel better for it."
"Bollocks," she says, but (after another sneeze), reluctantly settles herself back onto the pillows. Alek helps her tug the covers into place, which earns him a disgruntled glare.
She makes such a show of hating this sort of cosseting, and it's all he can ever do not to smile.
He knows her too well.
"Do you want anything?" he asks.
"Aye, a head that's not aching."
"I'm afraid I haven't any of those," he says, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "But I might be able to find some tea."
Deryn looks up at him. "Lemon and honey would be brilliant," she says, and sneezes explosively into her handkerchief.
Alek waits until she's done wiping her nose and cursing the sodding wee germs that have infected her. Then he leans over and kisses her hot cheek. "I want you well, Liebe."
"I want me well too, daftie," Deryn says, blue eyes too bright and too tired all at once; he'll forgive her the cross tone.
"Next time, perhaps, you'll take my advice and not go flying in a rainstorm."
She closes her eyes, muttering something too low to hear, but that is no doubt very uncomplimentary.
Alek smiles, presses a last kiss to the top of her head, and goes to fix her a cup of tea. He half-expects to see her sneaking out of bed again; the fact that she doesn't make the effort is also worrisome in and of itself.
He carries her the tea and finds that she's piled the blankets on top of her in a great heap, rather like a burrowing animal.
"Thanks, love," she says, sitting up and accepting the cup of tea with another airman's snuffle. He sits beside her on the bed as she drinks it. By the time she finishes, she's shivering and crackling with exhaustion. He tucks her in again and stays another few minutes until he's certain she's asleep.
He watches her. And worries.
The doctor said it was only a cold. And surely, very soon, she'll be well. After every mad, valiant, amazing thing she's done, a few germs are not going to be the death of her.
He worries, all the same.
Alek eventually leaves her sleeping, quietly pulls the door almost shut (in case she needs something and calls for him), and finds himself standing alone in the hallway, utterly at loose ends.
He hasn't anything urgent to do today, for once, but he cannot spend the day fretting over his ill wife. For one thing, she would kill him. For another, what does it say about him, that he sits motionless without her to guide his orbit?
That she's had the mastery of me since we met, he thinks, with a rueful chuckle. He glances at the door to their bedroom.
There are worse destinies.
In the end, he sits at his desk in the study and reads over papers sent from the Zoological Society, then composes replies to the ones that seem most important. This occupies a few hours of his time, but not nearly enough of his attention.
He checks on Deryn. She's asleep and snoring loudly.
Alek makes himself some tea and drinks about half of it. He spends several minutes absently swirling the remnants in the cup. They were supposed to go shopping today, for groceries, but he supposes they can manage for another few days.
He checks on Deryn. She's still asleep, having now taken over the entire bed and sprawling out in a decidedly unladylike fashion.
He prepares lunch and eats it at his desk, feeling absurdly alone. God's wounds, she's just down the hall; he hasn't been abandoned.
He sighs, leaves his dishes where they are, and goes to check on Deryn.
Perhaps not surprisingly, she's still asleep and still sprawled out. Also not surprisingly, she has kicked the blankets and sheets entirely off. Her feet, when he touches them, are like ice.
He tugs the bedclothes back into place and feels her forehead. Cool, thank God. It seems her fever has broken already. She's always been a quick one to heal.
When she can hold still, that is.
His fierce, fearless midshipman, occasionally too daring for her own good. He kisses her forehead where he touched it, silently wishing her pleasant dreams.
Of course she stirs and mumbles something he doesn't catch, then blinks her eyes open. "Alek?"
"Your fever's gone," he says softly, sitting beside her on the bed. He's sorry to have woken her, but suspects she won't be awake for long at all.
"Mm," she says, closing her eyes. She sniffs and clears her throat, though her voice sounds unusually thick. "Head still aches."
"Because you're still ill. Do you want more tea?"
"Mm," she says again, falling back to sleep already. He debates leaving her in peace, then reasons that he hasn't anything more pressing to attend to.
Accordingly, he removes his shoes and climbs into the bed, slipping beneath the sheets and gathering her close. "I don't like it when you're ill," he says into her hair.
"Me neither," she mumbles. "S' awful."
He strokes her back, gently, until he's certain she's asleep again. Then he means to get up – he really does – but if he moves he might disturb her, and she does need rest…
In the end he stays where he is, and, lulled by the familiar warmth of his best friend, a night spent worrying about her health, and a cozy dark room, dozes off himself.
It's a shallow sleep, and only lasts an hour or so. When he wakes, he finds his wife out of bed and across the room, wearing a dressing gown over her pyjamas, one hand on the doorknob, and busily sneezing into a handkerchief.
"What are you doing?" he demands, sitting up and raking a hand through his hair, which he can tell by feel is rather mussed.
"Escaping," she says. Sneezes. Swipes at her nose with the handkerchief and sniffs. "What's it look like, ninny?"
"God's wounds," he says, already out of the bed and halfway to her. She makes a token effort to open the door, but he puts his hand on the edge and forces it shut again. "You are impossible."
"Aye, and I'm sodding hungry," she says. She prods a finger into his chest, just under his collarbone. "I want food. Not soup, mind. Food."
"We'll see, Liebe." He fishes a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and gives it over.
"Don't 'Liebe' me, Clanker," she says, blowing her nose. Her eyes are dancing with some of their usual spark, he's cheered to see. "I can always find myself a new ex-prince."
"I will not be threatened by a godless Darwinist," he says.
"What if a former midshipman threatens you?"
He pretends to think this over. "No. A Hapsburg, even a fallen one, is not intimidated by a common soldier."
She grabs his shirtsleeve and pulls him closer, so that they are face to face, noses nearly touching. Hers is rather on the red side. "How about your barking brilliant wife?"
"Absolutely," he says, without hesitation.
"Too right. I'm going to kiss you," she announces. She releases his shirt and turns her head to sneeze again. "When I'm not stuffed full of germs, that is."
"You'll do more than kiss me, I assure you," he says, smirking, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and letting his hand linger. As absurd as this conversation is, he's delighted that she's well enough to tease him.
She swats his hand away and swabs at her nose, snuffling loudly. "Promises won't fill me up. Are you going to feed me or not?"
"There isn't much," he says, sidestepping the question. "We didn't have a chance to go to the market today."
Now it's her turn to smirk. "You just sat around and moped all day, didn't you?"
He frowns. "I wouldn't call it moping."
She laughs at him. Sneezes into her handkerchief. "Come on, Dummkopf," she says, opening the door and making her escape into the hall.
Alek stays where he is a moment, a smile tugging at his mouth. Then he follows his wife to the kitchen.
And halfway there, he sneezes.
