~*~take care of me

Emily placed a gentle hand on Rhonda’s shoulder before stepping around the corner and into the employee bathroom. Once there, she pulled her phone out and texted Elijah back – first, a good morning, and then, a reminder to get a flu shot, something he definitely should have already done, right? They had talked about it at least twice. The restaurant was a cesspool when it came to illness, Emily had come to realize in the six months the two of them had been dating. Close quarters, no one able to take a sick day, and long and late hours basically guaranteed that at least one person was sick at any given time, and this flu season really was shaping up to be… intense. Emily bit her lip as she typed; Elijah was a smart guy, with self preservation, she reasoned with herself. Certainly he’d already done it.

Pressing send on the message, she stepped back out into the hallway and grabbed the clipboard again, cracking her neck on the way to the waiting room. Only two hours into the shift, and she was already on her fourth clipboard. It was going to be a long day.

***

good morning <3. hey, random, and I know we talked about it a few weeks ago, but make sure u get ur flu shot if you havent already, its a srsly rough season this year xx

For the tenth time in two minutes, Elijah reread the text from Emily with his heart in his throat. Fuck, he knew he’d been forgetting to do something this past week – now, he remembered what it was. They had talked about flu shots when Emily got hers, courtesy of her work, last month; Elijah had promised he’d get his in the next few weeks, despite how busy the restaurant was. He did not.

Elijah slipped his phone back in his pocket, making a mental note to find the time today or tomorrow to get the shot. It would take less than thirty minutes, he reasoned with himself. Even he had thirty minutes to spare during the day. Thinking better of it, he pulled the phone back out, sitting back in his seat and perusing the closest pharmacy’s website for open flu shot slot times. There was one tomorrow afternoon, three pm – perfect. Before service, after manager meeting, and the pharmacy was barely a five minute walk away. Why hadn’t he done this earlier? Elijah pressed the time he wanted and began filling out his information, when he heard the back kitchen doors open and slam shut.

He heard Greyson before he saw him.

“HTTSHHH-uhh! Hhh… hh -! HRRTXXCH-ue!” The two massive sneezes were followed by a round of coughing, deep and chesty, the type of cough that you hear from the person next to you on the bus and start to hold your breath. Elijah’s head whipped up from his phone, mid-typing. No, he thought to himself, standing to walk toward the sound of Greyson’s suffering, please no.

“That had better not be you, Greyson,” he said, heading towards the back kitchen, phone long forgotten. Elijah thought back to Monday, when Greyson had texted him asking about the place that sold great miso soup near Elliot’s.

It’s called koi fish, Elijah had texted back. Why?

Because Reed was sick. He had the flu, they’d gone to urgent care to confirm, and he was completely miserable and refusing to eat anything. A pit had formed in Elijah’s stomach even then; Greyson, god love him, was absolutely unable to escape anyone near him getting sick without also succumbing. At this point, it was nearly a joke, a bit in the restaurant: if you have a cold, just go breathe near Chef for a minute. He’ll absorb it from you in a matter of moments, and you’ll start to feel better immediately. A rhinovirus succubus.

Please wash your hands while you’re taking care of him, Elijah had texted his friend. Sequester yourself if you have to. We have such a busy week.

Greyson had agreed, said he was being careful. He’d gotten a flu shot! He’d done everything right! He was a chef, he had to update his ServSafe card every five years to prove he knew how to keep his food from making people sick. If anyone knew how to keep from getting sick, surely it was him. And during Tuesday service, he was fine. Elijah thought, stupidly, that maybe they’d made it over the hump, so to speak.

But then yesterday – Wednesday – came around, and he’d been a little off during service. His consonants had been a little muted, his voice a little thin… but surely he was fine. Right? Surely he could make it through one illness his boyfriend had without catching it. Certainly he could.

When Elijah turned the corner into the prep kitchen, his heart, once lodged in his throat, immediately fell to the pit of his stomach. “Jesus Christ,” he said, taking the chef in.

Greyson looked miserable. His coat was zipped up to his neck, the hood slung over his head doing nothing to conceal his red, watering eyes and chapped nose. Clearly he could barely breathe; his mouth hung open, and when the coughs finally settled he was left wheezing into his sleeve, his breath just a catch away from the coughing fit beginning anew. “Hey, boss,” he managed, pulling his sleeve under his running nose. “How goes it?”

“Dude,” Elijah said, crossing his arms from the entrance of the back kitchen. “What did I tell you about sequestering yourself from Reed? Did it look like he was having so much fun on his death bed you needed to join him?”

Shrugging, Greyson turned on the water at the sink and thoroughly washed his hands before turning back to Elijah. “I got mby flu shot,” he wheezed, attempting to clear his throat. “I figured I’d be finde.”

Elijah closed his eyes, gathering himself before responding. “It’s not a magic spell, Grey. If you’re making out with your flu-ridden boyfriend, you’re going to get sick even if you had the shot. Everyone knows that.”

“Huh. Weird. They didn’t teach us that in culindary school. It’s almbost like it’s fuckigg food college. Ndot all of us went to three years of mbed school, Doctor Elijah. Ndot all of us are fuckigg a ndurse. Hh -!” Again, Greyson turned into his coat sleeve bracing himself on the sink with his free hand to keep from falling over. “HRTTTSCHH-ue! Huhh – HUHHTSCHCH-ueee!”

“Christ,” Elijah said, cringing. “Bless you. That sounds fucking painful.”

“It – hh -! Hh… hnng. Snrf. It is,” Greyson said, trying to sniff back some of the congestion and instead coughing hard enough that Elijah felt his chest contract in sympathy. He dipped out of the back kitchen, grabbed a water bottle from the beverage fridge in the server station, and brought it back to Greyson, who drank gratefully until the fit abated. The chef took a slow, deep breath, testing the waters of his lungs, and let it back out. He nodded at Elijah, as if to say good for now.

“I’m not a doctor, dickhead,” Elijah said when Greyson regained control. “They literally tell you that when you get the flu shot, don’t they?” Greyson raised an eyebrow.

“Whend’s the last timbe you got a flu shot?” he asked, rubbing his chest with a closed fist. Elijah flushed red and, realizing how close he was to Greyson, took a big step back.

“It’s been a while,” he admitted.

“Clearly,” Greyson said, moving out of the back kitchen and heading towards the office. Reluctantly, Elijah followed him – whether he wanted to sit next to the chef, breathe his germs in, or not, he did have to finish the schedule and the only place to do it was the office. They sat heavily in their chairs, Greyson’s rheumy eyes meeting his boss’s. “And also, I wasnd’t mbaking out with Reed, I was takigg care of himb. Tryigg to be a good boyfriend or whatever.”

“Mmm,” Elijah nodded. “You know you can be a good boyfriend without laying on top of him, yeah? You can take care of him without being attached at the hip.”

Greyson scoffed, coughed, and put his head on his hand, elbow resting on the desk. “Mbaybe you and Embily can take care of each other through a plastic bubble, but that’s ndot how Reed and I fly,” he said, eyes drooping towards closed. Elijah went to answer, but was cut off by a hastily-covered – “HTTSZZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCHHH-uhhh!”

Watching the droplets rush from the chef’s mouth into the air surrounding them in the office, Elijah remembered the disclosure agreement on the bottom of the form he filled out for the flu shot he was clearly going to desperately need. Any persons with cold or flu-like symptoms will not be permitted to receive the flu shot. Shit. He needed to get out of Greyson’s metaphorical splash zone, and quickly.

“Bless you,” he said again, while Greyson pulled a single tissue – then, thinking better, a whole handful – out of the box. “Grey, you are not well enough to be here. You need to go home, when does Matt get in?”

Greyson cringed as well blew his nose. “Yeah, that’s the thigg,” he said, pressing his fingers into his face where his sinuses resided. “Mbatt’s sigck too. I, uh, mbay have recruited himb to help mbe with Reed while Mbark is away.”

Groaning, Elijah sat back in his chair and pulled a hand warily down his face. Fuck. “So he isn’t coming in, then?” he asked, prompting a laugh from Greyson.

“Ndo, he’s combing in. I can’t do this ndight by mbyself, ndot like this. I figured the two of us incapacitated equals about onde of us healthy.”

Great, Elijah thought, giving Greyson an incredulous look. Surrounded by sick people all night. “You’re going to get your whole staff sick,” he warned his friend. Greyson shrugged.

“Is what it is,” he said, pulling another handful of tissues from the box. “Juuhh – just - HNTSZZCHH-uee!” he collapsed forward into the tissues and let out a little moan of frustration, before blowing his nose and tossing them aside. “Just have to tell themb ndot to get too close,” he croaked, coughing into his fist.

“Yeah,” Elijah said, looking down at the confirmation email from the pharmacy. “I’m sure that’ll work perfectly.”

***

Post-shift, and finally back at her Brooklyn fifth floor walk-up, Emily poured herself a glass of wine and sat heavily on the couch. What a day, she thought, downing half the glass in one large gulp.

The twelve-hour shifts she’d agreed to back in July were starting to wear on her. Sure, she only had to work four a week, and eight of those hours were guaranteed overtime, but christ those four days never got any shorter. Not getting back to her apartment until ten p.m. when she left for the day at seven a.m. had her feeling like Elijah and all the other restaurant workers – a creature of the night, relegated to only seeing the outside when it was dark. Less person, more vampire.

Speaking of Elijah, she thought, pulling her phone out and frowning at the screen. Her boyfriend hadn’t texted her since this afternoon, and even that text seemed hasty and distracted. She’d asked how his day was going, and he sent back the emoji that looked like it was gritting its teeth, followed by two words: Had better. To that, she sent a simple ? and had been left on read.

Now, with the restaurant closing in the next half hour, surely Elijah had some time to talk. Without thinking, she clicked on her boyfriend’s contact photo – a very Elijah-coded shot of him mid sip of a cocktail with a hand help up to the camera – and hit the call button.

Almost immediately, Emily was sent to voicemail. Confused, she pulled the phone away from her face and studied it, eyebrows furrowed. Again, she clicked the all button.

Again, voicemail.

This time, though, a text from Elijah popped up.

Elijah

10:21PM

Hey babe, sorry, we’re still finishing up service and Grey had to go so I’m cleaning on the line. Are you okay?

Emily cocked her head to the side at this message. Cleaning on the line? Where the hell did Greyson have to go that meant Elijah had to get on-line? She clicked the text box to reply.

Emily

10:22PM

yes, all good. what happened to greyson?

A few minutes passed before Elijah finally texted back.

Elijah

10:31PM

I sent him home. He and Matt have the flu.

A sigh escaped Emily’s lips as she read her boyfriend’s message. Of course the chefs had the flu. She put her wine glass on the coffee table and typed out another text.

Emily

10:34PM

oof, the worst im sorry. good thing u got the flu shot, right?

Another five full minutes went by without an answer. Finally, as Emily got up to pour herself another glass, a text pinged through. She looked down at the phone – Elijah had ‘liked’ her message, but didn’t send anything back. Emily pressed her lips together and put the phone down. Self-preservation, she thought to herself for the second time that day. He does have it… right?

***

T-minus six hours until the flu shot appointment.

Elijah let himself in through the back door of the restaurant and immediately pulled a hand down his face, still exhausted from the night before. He may as well have not even left; by the time the line was clean and the paperwork was done, it was nearly three in the morning. The seven a.m. wakeup call to come back in had come in the blink of an eye.

Slowly, Elijah made his way to the office at the front of the kitchen, typing out a text to Greyson as he did.

Elijah

8:55AM

Are you alive?

The evening previous, to call Greyson alive would have been more than a stretch. The chef had made it through about half of service, coughing and sneezing and wiping away fever sweat, but by the time eight o’clock rolled around, he was swaying on his feet. Dishes were leaving the kitchen ungarnished, temps unchecked, and seat numbers given to food runners forgone. Elijah knew if they wanted to keep their Michelin star, he needed to send his friend home. Greyson was entirely too sick to put up a fight; he’d yanked his apron off, donned his coat, and left the building without even saying goodbye to the cooks.

In Elijah’s hand, the phone buzzed.

Greyson

9:01AM

barely lol. fevers down tho, so ill be in later. like noon.

Relief washed over Elijah as he read; Greyson was able to text, he was up at nine a.m., he was joking around. Most likely, the worst was behind him.

Elijah

9:02AM

Matt?

Once Greyson was gone, Matt tried to step up to the plate and take over expo, but the poor kid was down just as bad as Greyson, and Elijah had to send him home about thirty minutes after the executive chef. Whatever Reed had passed along to the chefs was fucking lethal.

Greyson

9:05AM

mmm havent heard from him yet. probably not coming in tho. like I wouldnt bet on it

Elijah sighed; well, one was better than none, he supposed.

He stood from the desk and turned to the kitchen, moving slowly to turn on the lights and the gas and to crank up the heat. Outside, snow had begun to fall, and for once he was grateful; maybe it would be a slow evening. Maybe they could all get out and get to bed before three in the morning. Elijah’s bones ached with the desire to crawl up in his bed, Emily’s warm frame wrapped in his arms, nothing to do but listen to the snow outside and… and…

“Hhh…” Elijah’s breath caught, and he pressed his tongue hard against the back of his teeth to quell the itch in his sinuses. No, he thought, pinching his nose hard between his thumb and pointer finger. Not now.

It would have been a lie to say that Elijah felt… completely put together. Try as he might, he was just unable to ignore his body in the way that Greyson and Matt always seemed to; he was hyper-aware of it, in fact, tuned in to even the smallest twinge of difference. He’d felt it yesterday, just the tiniest bit off; he knew the second he swallowed and it went down a little weird. Oh, he thought to himself as he watched Greyson and Matt cough themselves dizzy. It’s so over.

Then, despite the late night, Elijah had gone home and tossed and turned in his bed from four until six in the morning, unable to breathe out of one nostril or the other, sitting up every few minutes to guzzle water, his throat dry and sticky despite the wild amount of liquid he was ingesting. As he lay pre-feverish in his bed, he thought of Emily. He thought of the busy-as-fuck week they’d had. He thought of Greyson.

Greyson was sick. And Matt was sick. And Elijah was getting a flu shot today, and Emily had warned him about the flu not just yesterday, but multiple times since fall had turned to winter, and he could not be sick. So when his alarm went off at seven, Elijah took the hottest shower he could handle and looked himself in the mirror. “You are fine,” he said to his reflection. “You are not sick.”

Manifesting had always been one of his strong suits, after all. Had he not manifested this life he made for himself? Manifested the restaurant and its accolades? Manifested his nice apartment, his happy life? Sure, some would say that he worked his ass off for it, had scrimped and saved and worked two or even three jobs at a time when he was young, learned how to wire and plumb and interior design when he finally saved enough to buy the restaurant so that he wouldn’t have to pay someone to do everything for him. Some would certainly argue that he even had to work to be happy, to feel deserving of all that he had, but who were they to say those things? It was all manifestation, baby. One hundred perce -

“HXTSH-uhhh! NTSHH-ieuu! Hh - ! HhIGTXTZCH-uee!” Elijah attempted to stifle the sneezes into the back of his wrist, an effort that left him groaning at the pain behind his eyeballs. Can’t manifest health, he thought, then quickly pushed the thought away. Yes, he could manifest health. Of course he could. Mind over matter.

Elijah sniffed experimentally, testing to see how congested he really was. The sniffle barely moved any of the sludge beginning to build in his sinuses, and in fact only managed to make the constant buzz at the back of his nose and throat burn stronger. Again, he pinched his nose shut, this time managing to fully stifle two, three – four – shit – five sneezes in rapid succession, leaving him panting and stuffed up to the gills in the wake of the fit. Who the hell was he holding them in for, it’s not like anyone else was here. But Elijah knew, he was doing it to prove a point to himself – that he was well, that he was fine, that this afternoon he would be allowed by the pharmacy to get the flu shot. Manifesting. That was the reason. He checked his watch, and sighed.

Five hours, twenty-five minutes until the appointment.

***

Emily was sure this week was never going to end.

Eight hours into her fourth twelve-hour shift in a row, and she was the kind of tired you feel in the depths of your bones. The waiting room never got less full. The people never got kinder. At every new patient, every new throat she had to swab and temperature she had to take, she could feel herself untethering more and more. It was barely December – was this going to be the way it was all winter? She shuddered at the thought. Maybe she needed to take a mid-winter vacation.

Also, why the fuck wasn’t Elijah texting her back?

For the third time that hour, Emily checked her phone. No text from Elijah. She checked his location – still at the restaurant. It was two p.m., for god’s sake, it’s not like they were in service. What the hell was he doing?

The thought that she had often, the one she got whenever things seemed to be going well in a relationship, slipped into the back of her mind. Maybe he’s just done. Emily bit her cheek at the thought; much as she wished she could count it out, call it nonsense… it would honestly make sense. Elijah was chronically single, as Greyson put it when they all went out back at the beginning of her and Elijah’s flirtation.

“I mean, same,” Emily had said, smiling. Greyson had put his drink down on the bar top, turned away from the seat Elijah had just left to go use the bathroom, and looked at Emily, his face set into a serious look.

“No, like… look, Emily, Elijah does really like you. And like, I’ve known him for almost ten years and he’s never liked anyone, so that’s huge. But when I say he’s chronically single, I mean he doesn’t know how to be in a relationship. At all. He’s quite literally married to that restaurant. He’s there over a hundred hours a week.” He’d picked the drink back up, swallowed the remainder of it, and shrugged at her. “Just… I mean, just don’t be surprised if he picks it. When he picks it. He picks it over everything. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That had stuck with her, much as she didn’t want it to. Emily wasn’t the type of person who needed constant validation, truly; she was independent, she loved her space, and she knew Elijah was the same. It was something she enjoyed about their relationship, the fact that they didn’t have to be in constant contact or see each other more than once a week. It worked for them. But she couldn’t deny, six months into the relationship, that Greyson was right: Elijah did pick the restaurant over everything. Dates were often canceled, sometimes at the very last minute, and holidays and birthdays were a moot point. Elliot’s came first, always. And that was okay with her, really, she understood. Elliot’s was Elijah’s lifeblood, what he’d always dreamed of. She was proud that he was so passionate.

She just wished, sometimes, that he could be… more human about their relationship. Like now. When he was refusing to text back. She looked down at their text thread again – three texts from her, sent hours apart, two this morning and one an hour ago on her lunch break. No response. Fucker, she thought, annoyed. Again, the thought: maybe he’s just done. Emily sighed, clicked her phone off, and put it back in her pocket, heading towards the front for another patient clipboard.

Maybe. But she really, really hoped not.

***

“Elijah.”

“Sshh. I dond’t wandt to hear it.”

“Lij, c’mbon mban, you kndow they’re ndot going to let you -”

“Greysond. Shut the fuck up. Can you watch the servers for an hour while I’mb gone?”

“I mbean -”

“Can you?”

Greyson gave Elijah a withering, pitiful look. “Obviously I can,” he said, coughing into his elbow. “But you’re quite literally about to be turned away at the door,” he finished, voice croaky and waterlogged. Elijah placed an overly warm hand onto his own throat to keep from dissolving into his own coughing fit. He shook his head.

“I wond’t,” he said, “because I’mb ndot sick.”

The day had been… humbling, to say the least. Elijah had tried his best all morning to heed off the oncoming illness; downing tea and ignoring the constant itch in his sinuses, sucking on endless lozenges and then finally, after a couple hours of insisting to himself that he did not need it, giving in and shooting back double the recommended dose of dayquil. By the time Greyson trudged in at noon, Elijah could feel the mask slipping more and more with each passing minute.

“Oh, ndo,” Greyson said when he walked into the office and found Elijah doubled over into his elbow, coughing up a lung. “You sound like fuckigg shit.”

Painfully, Elijah rolled his eyes at his friend. “Pot, kettle,” he said, yanking a tissue out of the nearly depleted box just in time to – “HRRTSHHH-uhh!”

Greyson grimaced while Elijah blew his nose uselessly. “Bless you,” Greyson said. In return, Elijah flipped him off. “Sorry.”

Annoyed, Elijah tossed the tissue into the trash can by their chairs and squirted hand sanitizer onto his hands. “How are you feeligg?” he asked, ignoring Greyson’s blessing.

“Bad. But probably better thand you.”

Elijah deadpanned his friend, pushed up his glasses, and sat back in his chair, an attempt to look blasé. “I feel finde,” he said, trying to clear the congestion from his voice. “I amb fine.”

A soupy-sounding laugh escaped Greyson’s lips, followed by a crunching, painful cough that lasted entirely too long for Elijah’s liking. Despite his aching limbs, the GM pushed himself to a stand and went to the server station to make Greyson a tea, sickly sweet with honey, the only way the chef would drink it. By the time he returned to the office, Greyson had managed to collect himself.

“Thangks,” he said, taking a sip. “Where’s yours?”

Without meaning to, Elijah’s eyes panned over to the two empty coffee cups by his computer monitor. Greyson smiled and hummed to keep from laughing, to save his fucked-up lungs. “You sound like you have fuckigg pneumonia,” Elijah said, an attempt to change the subject. Shrugging, Greyson sipped his tea.

“Ndah,” he said, rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand. “Reed sounded the sambe the first few days; I’mb okay. Pneumonia feels way worse thand this.” If he wasn’t worried about collapsing into his own coughing fit, Elijah would have laughed.Only Greyson would have that reference point.

“You’re sickly. Like a Victoriand child. Has andyone ever told you that?”

Greyson raised an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he said, a smile dancing on his lips. “I thingk that’s fairly well-established. I also thingk,” he said, reaching over to press the back of his hand to Elijah’s forehead, “that you’re deflecting.”

Elijah tried to pull away quickly, but his reflexes were slowed by the ache in his joints. “I’mb getting a flu shot at three, and they wond’t give it to you if you have...symptoms,” he said swatting at his friend’s hand, a poor attempt to ward off the accusation of illness. “I cand’t be sick.”

“Uhh,” Greyson said, pressing his lips together. “I mbean, I thingk your body doesn’t really give a fugck about what your plans for a flu shot were. Clearly,” he said, motioning to the GM as if he was flu-incarnate. “Also, didn’t Embily tell you to get a flu shot, like, two mbonths ago? Why are you just ndow going?”

A flush burned across Elijah’s face. “I mbay have forgotten. Like. Every time she said it.”

Greyson bit his cheek, a laugh catching in his throat. “You’re a bad boyfriend,” he joked, kicking Elijah.

“I’mb workigg on ihh – hh…” Elijah’s hand flew up to his nose, once again pinching it to keep the sneeze at bay. Not just to prove that he wasn’t ill – though that reason still stood – but because they were just exhausting. Grating and throat-scraping and seemingly endless. Before the chef had arrived, he found himself doubled over, sneezing so hard that his vision began to dance at the corners of his eyes. Passing out was not in the cards today.

“Good luck with that,” Greyson said, turning away from his boss to turn his computer on. Then, as he watched Elijah struggle out of the corner of his eye – “Lij, just let yourself -”

“HRTSCHHH-uee! GTSXXCHH-uhh! HhhhITSZCHHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-ieuuu! ITSZCHH-uhhh! Huh -! HuhhhETSZCHH-uee!” Again, Elijah found himself doubled over into his lap, the sneezes painfully and uncharacteristically unrestrained. Panting, he grabbed the last three tissues from the box and wiped himself up, afraid blowing would set him off again. He coughed into the handful of tissues, swallowing compulsively to try and make the fit stop quicker.

“Wow,” Greyson said. “There is ndo way in hell they’re goigg to let you get that flu shot.”

The next few hours had gone as terribly as Elijah could’ve imagined they would; he felt like fucking dog water, a descriptor the servers loved to use that felt so apt he couldn’t help but pick it up. Sludgey, tepid, nasty. The fever he’d felt warming the back of his neck at the beginning of the day now felt like it was boiling his brain, turning it into soup. The cough felt constant, and he suddenly understood why Greyson was spending so much time rubbing his chest – it hurt, hurt like a gorilla was sat between his neck and stomach. And then, there was the – the…

“IGTSZCHH-uee! HhhRRTSCCHH-ieuu! Huh -! Huhh…! HuhhhETSZCHH-ieuu!”

“Bless you, Elijah.” Matt, who they thought wasn’t going to make it in, had come around two, and pointedly blessed his boss literally every time he sneezed. Greyson, who had given up on getting Elijah to admit to having the flu, had stopped an hour in and gone to the back kitchen to prep. Matt wasn’t giving up nearly as easily.

“Boss, you ndeed to take some more medicinde,” Matt said placing the dayquil that he and Greyson had just taken doses of on the desk beside Elijah. The GM shook his head.

“’m okay,” he said around the congestion in his throat. “Thangks.”

Matt sighed stuffily and shook his head. “I’ll leave it there just in case,” he said, turning to go back to prepping the line.

The cherry on top of this shitty day, though, was Emily texting him.

Emily

8:41AM

morning <3 hope you have a good day

Emily

10:12AM

are greyson & matt coming in today? fingers crossed it isnt too busy tonight!

Emily

1:20PM

this place is a fucking madhouse. think im getting misophonia from hearing so much coughing lmao

Emily

2:48PM

hellooo? earth to elijahhh

He wanted to text back, truly, but every time he opened their text thread he felt that familiar sense of dread; he’d promised her he’d get a flu shot, promised he’d stay healthy. And, of course, he’d managed to somehow fuck it up. There was little more he wanted than to text her, I’m down so fucking bad can you please come to my house tonight? To say, I feel like I’m dying and all I want is to be in bed with you. But he didn’t; he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to her.

And now it was nearly three, and Greyson was stood in front of him telling him he was going to be turned away from the pharmacy. Which of course he was right, of course he was sick, but for Emily and for his own stupid pride, he just could not admit it.

“I’m ndot sick,” he said to Greyson again, donning his coat and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “So please, watch the servers. I’ll be back whend I’mb done at the pharmacy. Okay?”

Greyson just shook his head, obviously too tired and annoyed to continue to fight his friend. “Whatever, Elijah,” he said. “Good fuckin’ luck, bro.”

***

Thirty more minutes, Emily thought to herself. You can do anything for thirty minutes.

It had been just about the longest day of her life; she had to get off these twelves, they were quite literally sucking the life out of her. The stream of patients refused to let up, and all she wanted was a hot shower and a fat cocktail. And maybe Elijah to text her back, but at this point even that was neither here nor there.

“Em,” Rhonda called to her as she put yet another finished patient clipboard at the front desk. Emily grimaced at the sound of her name. Please, please don’t need anything from me.

“What’s up?” she said, trying to sound bright and happy, not like she was ready to lob someone’s head off. She walked towards Rhonda, who was holding yet another fucking clipboard.

“Room three was asking if you’re around,” she said, handing over the clipboard. Emily couldn’t help herself; she groaned aloud.

“Can Paul just tell them I left? Please? I only have thirty minutes left, Rhon. I’m so done.”

Rhonda shrugged. “Paul already said that you’re here, doll. Sorry. Just tell the guy you’re about to be off, let him know you’ll put the night lead on him if he’s so worried.” She held the clipboard out a little more forcefully, prompting Emily to, begrudgingly, take it.

“Fine,” she said, tucking the clipboard under her arm. “But if it’s that weirdo from last week who kept pretending to have a broken leg to see me, I’m calling the cops.”

Rhonda laughed. “Show ’em how it’s done,” she said. “I’ll take your name off the board for the rest of the shift.”

“You’re my hero,” Emily said.

Without looking at the clipboard – she could hear the coughing from the hallway, at this point she could diagnose the flu in her sleep – Emily knocked on the door of room three. She adjusted her mask, squirted some hand sanitizer on, and pushed through the heavy door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. -” she glanced down at the clipboard then, and stopped in her tracks. At the top of the patient intake form: Elijah Morrison. Emily’s head shot up from the clipboard and – oh.

There, on the paper-lined bench, sat her obviously very ill boyfriend. Beneath his glasses, Elijah’s eyes were lined with bags, his cheeks and nose scarlet from fever and constant rubbing, respectively. As she walked toward him, he removed the elbow he was coughing into and attempted a smile.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, his voice low and scratchy with illness. “I, uh… I thingk I mbight have the flu.”

A wave of deja vu passed over her, and Emily couldn’t help but to smile as she pulled down her mask. “Hmm, do you think?” she asked, placing a cool hand on Elijah’s hot forehead. “Jesus, baby. You’re burning up. What the hell are you doing here?”

Elijah managed a little laugh without coughing. “Grey wouldn’t let mbe combe back to work, said I’mb gonna scare off mby own customers. And I wanted to see you.” Ever the charmer, even when he’s on death’s door, Emily thought, shaking her head. “Is this how you talk to all your patiendts, by the way?” Elijah asked, grinning goofily – oof, that had to be a high fever for him to be making that face. “Kinda undhinged,” he said, tugging playfully at the braid she had hastily done this morning. Emily rolled her eyes, gave Elijah a little push.

“Yeah, that’s how most patients describe my bedside manner. ‘Kinda unhinged’,” she said, making Elijah laugh and then cough again, grating and painful. She stepped briefly into the hall to grab a cup of water for him, catching Rhonda’s eye as she did. Rhonda raised an eyebrow, pulled down her mask. I thought you were passing him off? She mouthed.

Emily sighed, shrugged. “It’s Elijah,” she said. Rhonda eyes grew to saucers. She shooed Emily back towards the room with her hand.

“I’ll mark the room as unavailable until you leave,” she said. Emily smiled. Truly the best, she thought as she walked back in and handed Elijah the cup. He drained it, finally catching his breath.

“Thangk you,” he said, grabbing her hand. “I’mb sorry.” Emily pressed her eyebrows together, confused.

“Why are you sorry?” she asked, taking his temperature and using the light on the otoscope to look into his ears and throat. Temp was high – 103.2 – but no ear infection, and it didn’t look like strep, so she put her tools down. “I can see why Greyson wouldn’t let you back, jesus,” she joked, hopping up on the bed to sit beside her boyfriend. “No need to apologize – I figured you’d probably end up sick, since Greyson is. You two are on top of each other like ninety percent of the time.”

Elijah shrugged, rubbing his nose and eyes – was he about to cry? Distraught, Emily started to say something, to take it back, when Elijah wrenched to the side, away from her.

“HHRDDTSCHH-ieuuu! RRTSCHH-uee! HTSZZZCHH-ieuu! Hh… hhITSZCCCH-uhhh!” Elijah folded in on himself over and over, the paroxysms so intense that they nearly moved the bed beneath them. Finally, Elijah sniffled, out of breath, and Emily jumped down to hand him a box of tissues.

“Thangk you,” Elijah said, stuffily. Emily nodded.

“Bless you,” she said as he blew his nose. “That sounded… painful.” Elijah laughed as he wiped his nose.

“That’s exactly what I said to Grey yesterday,” he croaked. Emily smiled.

“And?”

“And they are. Paindful. He said as mbuch.” Elijah shrugged. “He didn’t lie.”

“Mmm,” Emily hummed, placing the earbuds of her stethoscope in her ears and listening to Elijah’s crackling lungs. “You need to rest, by the way,” she said, taking the buds out and slinging the stethoscope around her neck to hold with both hands. “Your lungs sound rough. That could easily develop into walking pneumonia.”

“I also said that to Greysond,” Elijah laughed. Emily smiled again, a little sadly.

“It sounds like both of you need a day off,” she said, pointedly. A nod, a shrug from Elijah.

“Probably,” he said. There was a beat, then, a moment of silence before Emily couldn’t help herself.

“So, I assume you didn’t get a flu shot, like I told you to?” she asked, trying to play it off as light and playful, despite her worry. If Elijah didn’t get a flu shot, this was about to be a rough week for him. She made a mental note to ask when his symptoms started, to see if she could get him on Tamiflu. Elijah cringed.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s why I was apologizing. I, uh, actually wendt to go get onde this afterndoon. But… they turned mbe away.” He smiled goofily again, shrugging. “Said you cand’t have a fever and get it.”

Emily pressed her lips together. “I could’ve told you that,” she said, sitting next to him again. “If you just asked.” Elijah nodded, turned to look at her.

“I’mb sorry,” he said. “I didn’t wandt you to worry. Or thingk I don’t listen to you. It just slipped mby mbind. But I should’ve just done it. I’mb sorry.”

Placing her hands on either side of Elijah’s hot face, Emily gently massaged his sinuses, nodded before he closed his eyes in relief. “Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked. One of Elijah’s eyes opened, just a bit.

“How could I forget,” he said. “I thingk it was ind this very roomb.”

“It was room nine. But close enough.”

Elijah smiled, hummed. “Dond’t mbake mbe laugh,” he said, closing his eye again. “Hurts.”

“Sorry,” Emily said, continuing to massage. “Do you know what I said to Rhonda, after you left that first time I saw you?”

“Mmmb?”

“‘That’s the hottest sick man I’ve ever met. I’d hate to see him well. It would be too much for my heart to handle’.”

This time, both of Elijah’s eyes popped open. “Yeah?” he asked. Emily nodded. “Well, Grey was basically mbarrying us the whole rest of the day. Called mbe ‘Mbister Doctor Embily’.” Emily’s face flushed – what happened to ‘he’s married to the restaurant’? – and Elijah chuckled. “That whole saga was so embarrassing,” he said, leaning his face onto Emily’s hand. He looked at her earnestly, then. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

Emily’s heart thumped in her chest, butterflies swimming in the pit of her stomach. Maybe he’s just done, she’d thought earlier, but that wasn’t true. This man, this passionate and stubborn man… he couldn’t be just done. She wasn’t sure how she’d thought he could. “Lij?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Elijah looked into her eyes, his bloodshot and watery. His nose was running, just a little, his glasses askew from leaning on her hand. She’d spent all day annoyed at sick people, going from room to room to room wishing them all away, but somehow Elijah – sick Elijah, contagious and fluish Elijah – erased all of them, the whole day’s worth. Sick or well, she could look into his eyes all day long. “You’ll get sick,” he croaked out, sniffling. She nodded, brought his face close.

“I could use a day off,” she said, bringing his face close and pressing her lips to his, the kiss too warm and too wet and somehow perfect, the perfect kiss for the moment. He kissed back, hungrily, until he had to pull away to breathe.

“Thangk you,” he said. “And sorry. For giving you the flu.”

Emily pushed Elijah’s sweaty hair out of his face. “It’s okay,” she said. “It won’t be too bad. After all – I got my flu shot.”

"I don't sound like that, you gave me an accent."

"You sound like you chain-smoke, oh, which you do," the little shit insisted, leading the way. Max did not chain smoke, "how was the date with Vin?"

"It wasn't a date," Max groaned, although his stomach filled up with butterflies at the memory of their little intimate dinner, "he just cooked me dinner because he says I can't live on a beige diet."

"Honestly," Leo agreed, gloomily, "all you eat is rice, potatoes and the occasional avocado. That cannot be healthy."

"I have steak sometimes!" Max cried out, speeding up to keep up with Leo, "and I'm perfectly healthy."

Leo looked pointedly at his stomach, "yeah, except for the Curse," he snorted, then let out a weird choking noise and braced against the shelves as he started coughing.

Max jumped back, raised his hand to smack his friend on the back in case he was choking, but those were deep. chesty coughs. Leo whimpered at the tail end, clutching his throat.

"Urgh, fuck."

"Are you sick?" Max guessed, squinting at Leo. The other guy had a bright pink splotch in the middle of his cheeks, but other than that he was pale as a ghost.

"Probably," Leo groaned, walking ahead as if leading the way, "it's just a cold, don't worry about it."

"Why the hell are you thrift shopping when you have a cold?" Max rushed to keep up, just as Leo beamed as he found a big lava lamp.

"This is cool-"

"Leo," Max scoffed, "why are we shopping if you're sick? Shouldn't you be in bed? Did McDreamy even allow you to leave home if you're sick?"

Leo huffed out a chuckle, which quickly morphed into a cough and he had to shove the lamp into Max's arms in order to turn around and fold in the middle. It sounded painful.

"Sh-she-et," Leo whined, grabbing onto a shelf to straighten up, and pretending Max wasn't seeing it, "I'm fine. I wanna shop, I'm excited. Besides, I don't need Jon's permission to leave home, he's not the boss of me."

"He doesn't know, uh?" Max grinned, rolling his eyes, "sneaky little shit."

Leo blushed, but shrugged, "leave me alone," he mumbled and kept walking, "help me pick a rug."

Max sighed, rubbing his forehead in a frustrated manner and following the guy around, "do you have siblings?" He asked, as Leo continued to pile random items on his arms, unbothered.

He froze on his tracks, eyebrows up and looking around as if Max had been talking with anyone else, "Uh- me?"

"Yes, you," Max rolled his eyes impatiently, procuring a basket to dump all the trinkets he was carrying.

"No," Leo snickered, cheeks turning pink slightly, "none that I know of, anyway."

Max narrowed his eyes at the cryptic answer, "your parents aren't together anymore?" He guessed, already imagining Leo as the child of a nasty divorce. It would explain why they got along so well, damage recognized damage.

"You could say that," Leo mumbled to himself, not as an answer to Max, rubbing his chest and then holding up a finger, as he turned around to cough mercilessly. They were turning really nasty, wet and deep, obviously painful.

Max finally managed to find a basket and got rid of the items — a lava lamp, a welcome mat, a bathroom rug, a black and white biker poster and an assortment of containers for shit like dish soap — and moved so he could pat Leo's back. His hand hung in the air for a split second before he made up his mind and planted it on the guy's back, putting force into the pats and rubs.

Leo spluttered for air, face pink and eyes teary, bracing against a wall as he took difficult breaths, "fuck," he whined, pitifully, clutching his throat. Max pursed his lips, now he was close enough to be able to tell Leo had a fever.

"Yeah, that's enough, I'm driving you home," Max decided and Leo raised a hand in the air and shooed him away as if he was an inconvenient dog.

"Not yet," he said, or rather, whispered, his voice shot. Leo groaned, a hand clutching his throat, a grimace on his face, "the quicker you help me, the quicker we leave."

Max rolled his eyes dramatically, Leo was such a prick. Dying, but still being stubborn, "fiiiine, what do you need me to look for?"

"Uhm-" Leo squinted at his phone screen, the glare of it bothering him enough he reduced the brightness to nearly dark. He tapped on the screen for Max to see and he had to step closer in order to see what was written.

"Curtains, okay- Uh, why the fuck is there cat written here?" Max chuckled, taking the phone from Leo's hand in order to make sure he hadn't read it wrong. Sure enough, the word "cat" was written under curtain and above "lava lamp", "I don't think Goodwill has those, buddy."

"You need a kitten," Leo said, defensively, stretching and snatching his phone back with a bit of a pout, "cute and cudd-Aw," he hissed, hand curling around his throat. He gulped down, then gestured as if locking his mouth, meaning he wasn't planning on speaking further.

Max groaned, dramatically, "I'm gonna end up killing it! I'm not fit for a pet!"

"Jon said the same," Leo grinned, his eyes sparkling with fever, "c'mon, curtains."

It took them fifteen more minutes before they finished Leo's list and a whole lot more bitching from Max as he paid for all of it, then they were off.

Leo was sneezing now, the tip of his nose red, as well as his cheeks and he looked miserable. On his way out he had grabbed a box of tissues and he sniffled as he walked side by side with Max.

"Are you finally gonna go home?"

"Nuh-huh," Leo gulped down, shuddering. His voice had grown really hoarse, "pet store."

"Dude!" Max cried out, finishing shoving his bags on Leo's backseat. Now he regretted not having driven there, because he felt like he was in a hostage situation, but on the other hand there was no way Leo could drive himself back. So whatever, "I cannot keep a pet alive, I can barely keep myself alive-"

"Exactly the reason you need one," Leo jiggled the car keys and Max considered manhandling him for it. He wasn't as tall, nor did he frequent a gym half as often, he definitely couldn't win in a fight on a good day, but Leo looked sick enough he might just get lucky.

Or he could call Jonah, Max thought smugly, but gave up on the idea immediately. Him and Jonah weren't friends, it felt awkward calling him about anything that wasn't an emergency.

"Lessgo, Max!" Leo jumped ahead of him, way too much energy for someone who was sick, entering the driver's side and slamming his door. Max sighed, heavily.

"You're like a toddler," he declared, entering the passenger side and glaring at his friend. The car started before he even managed to put his seat belt on, "such a pain in the ass."

"You're just sooo much fun to rage bait," Leo beamed at him, then ducked his head to sneeze loudly, rubbing at his nose, "aww'sfycks," he reached blindly for the tissue box and Max handed it to him with a judgemental glare, watching as he blew his nose and it triggered a coughing fit.

"You're in no state to drive," Max scoffed, as soon as they stopped on a red light and Leo lowered his forehead to the steering wheel, coughs harsh enough Max was half convinced he was gonna bring up his lunch, "pull over."

"Nuh," Leo shook his head, grabbing three different tissues and pressing it to his mouth as he shuddered, spitting into it. Gross, Max thought with a grimace.

"I'm serious, pull over, you're gonna end up crashing," Max gestured for him that the light had turned green, "I'll drive."

"To the-" Leo sniffled, his nose starting to run, so he pressed a tissue under it, voice coming out muffled, "pe'sfore?"

"Leoo-"

A stubborn, feverish glare answered him and Max sighed, loudly, "Fine! To the fucking pet store so I can pick the animal that will end up killing!"

Leo squinted at him, from the corner of his eye, the car going so slow that they received a honk and a swear. His shoulders dropped, "M'kay..."

Max had half a mind to just ignore his promise and take Leo straight home, but he decided against it because he was about 50% sure this might cause Leo to cry and he really wouldn't know how to fix that.

There was a pet store near the Wagner-Banks building anyway, one where Leo was apparently a regular, because the guy behind the counter perked up at seeing him and said, "Leo! Where's JD?"

Max shifted uncomfortably, looking around the place. Rows and rows of canned pet food, all sorts of trinkets... There were birds in the back and Max abandoned Leo with his acquaintance, in order to go inspect it.

He thought birds were cute, but too noisy and, honestly, too fragile. The chances of him killing it were exponentially higher than a cat, and they were already pretty high for the cat.

On the opposite wall there were three large tanks, with fishes and Max grinned. He should get one of those, they seemed easy enough-

"You're not getting a fish," Leo spawned next to him, as if reading his mind, "they're boring."

Max rolled his eyes, "they're fine-"

Leo grabbed him by the elbow, guiding him further inside, grumbling like an old man. Max ignored his bitching in favor of trying to gauge just how high was his fever. Seemed higher than it had been in Goodwill and he seemed more pale now, sweaty.

"Are you nauseous?"

Leo did not dignify him with a response. Max groaned, dragged his feet.

They passed by a tank with snakes and he perked up, "those are cool-"

"You need something you can cuddle," Leo shook his head and then nearly walked straight into a shelf as the movement made him dizzy. He braced a hand against the nearest wall, taking measured breaths through his mouth.

"Sorta looks like you're gonna hurl," Max egged him on, deciding if Leo did puke in the store, maybe he could walk away pet-free. Though the snakes had looked truly really fun.

"M'not," Leo gulped down, coughing in the crook of his elbow and finally managing to get Max where he wanted him, in front of a playpen with four little cats inside of it, for donation.

Two of them were tabbys, with blue eyes and stripes all over. One seemed to be wearing a tuxedo and the other one was a very fluffy ginger.

"Pick'em up," Leo shoved his arm in a friendly way, then collapsed against the fire exit, glaring at the floor as he very clearly was fighting nausea. Max rolled his eyes, bossy motherfucker.

They were wriggly and yeah, adorable... Just not enough, Max decided, inspecting a kitten that tried to swat at his face. Meowing pitifully.

"Eh, they're fine," he shrugged, "I don't know, Leo..."

"Are you more of a dog person? You don't seem like one," Leo seemed genuinely puzzled by not knowing Max inside out. Which was crazy, because as this day had made clear, Max didn't even know if he had siblings. How did Leo decide he just knew him so well, uh?

"No, I'm not a dog person..." He put the cats back down, crossing his arms... Then glanced back to the enclosure with the repetiles, leaving Leo behind as his friend hacked up a lung. Stubborn idiot.

There were three snakes inside of the tank, all skinny and tiny, like freaking zip ties. Max immediately lowered himself to get a better look, unable to stop himself from smiling when he got a clear view of their derpy faces and long, darting tongues.

"Oh, they are cute," he sighed, dreamily.

"Wanna pick 'em up?" The store clerk asked and Max nodded, eagerly.

One of them was red, with orange markings all over its body, the other one was plain brown and the third one was yellow. He had never held a snake in his life, so he was surprised by how friendly they were and stiff, holding themselves up in his hands.

"This one is really cute," Max decided, bringing the red snake up to his face, to the point they were almost nose to nose. They were babies, he could tell by how skinny and tiny they were, "how big does it get?"

"Eh, no bigger than 4 feet," the clerk shrugged, "they're corn snakes, they're not large."

"How much is he?" Max carefully petted the head of the snake who was watching him curiously. It's whole head was about the size of his thumb, a little bigger.

The pet was only 60 bucks, but he needed a bunch of extra crap, so Max ended up spending more in the pet store than he had in the previous one... Not that he minded, feeling like a kid as he cradled the snake in his palm and wondered what the hell to name him.

Leo had, at some point, slipped outside the store and Max met with him as he loaded up the trunk of his car with his new pet's enclosure and a box of frozen pinkies.

"I can't believe you're getting a snake," Leo groaned, glaring in the direction of the animal, as he pressed his overheated forehead to the cool metal of Max's car.

"Aw, c'mon, he's super cute!" Max cried out, circling the vehicle so he could hold it up to Leo, "look at him!"

Leo squinted, eyes rimmed red and nose too, looking about ready to collapse. Max lowered the snake, "okay, you're done for today," he said, strongly, "c'mon, get in the car, Leo."

"What- What are you gonna name him?" Leo collapsed on the passenger's seat, flinching as Max put the snake inside of a styrofoam carriage he had been given and planted it on his lap.

"I don't know," Max shrugged, "Snake?"

"What the fuck, you can't name your snake snake," Leo glared at him, flabbergasted.

"How about Serpent?"

"Absolutely not," Leo waved him off.

Several minutes passed and they were in a comfortable silence when Leo groaned, "I'm getting carsick."

Said point blank and deadpan like that, Max took a minute to process it, "you- What?"

"Speed up," Leo bossed, wrapping an arm around his stomach, "don't feel well..."

"Goddammit, Leo," Max scoffed, pressing on the gas pedal, "do I have to pull over? I think I gotta-"

"Urrk-UURK-" Leo heaved, grabbing the snake box at the last second as he leaned forward, to avoid puking on its head.

"LET ME PULLOVER!" Max squealed, blindly reaching to grab his pet while his eyes scanned the street for a spot to park. Leo's back convulsed with another empty retch.

There was a parking spot a meter away-

"Max-" Leo warned him, voice clipped, pressing a hand to his mouth as his whole body shook. Max ignored him, driving a little manically in order to stop the car and then clicking the release button of Leo's seatbelt, shoving the passenger door open, just as Leo leaned to the side and brought up a stream of his lunch.

"Aw, dude..." Mx cooed, heart racing from the little adrenaline spike, planting a hand on Leo's trembling back as the guy coughed and ended up vomiting even more.

"Did I..." Leo groaned, then sneezed loudly, body lurching. He gasped for air for a couple minutes, not seeming to realize he was making a breathless, whining sound, before he tried again, "did I puke on him?"

Max took a second too long to realize Leo meant the snake, who was still in the styrofoam box clutched in his other hand. He snorted, looking at it. Sure enough, there was a disgusting dot of orangey saliva on top of the white box and he wrinkled his nose, using the hem of Leo's sweater to clean it, because fuck this kid.

"Almost," he grimaced, opening the box and beaming when the snake immediately poked his head out, clearly curious about what all that jostling around had been, "I think you just startled him."

"Should..." Leo spat and straightened up, falling against the seat's back with a laborious breath, clutching his chest, "name him Barfy."

"Absolutely not," Max glared at the side of his head, closing the lid of the snake's enclosure again, "how are you holding up, Leo?"

"Awful," he wheezed, voice all croaky, "think I got a fever..."

Without hesitating, this time around, Max pressed his hand to Leo's forehead and groaned out loud, "yeah, you're burning up... Are you done? We're about a block away from your place..."

Leo gulped down, seeming to think it over, then ducked his head quickly as three rapid sneezes overcame him. He let out a loud, long groan, "fuuuuck- Yeah, led'sjustgo..." his words slurred together and he sniffled, pitifully.

Max smiled, "If I put him back on your lap you promise not to puke on him again?" he said, already planting the little box on Leo's lap. The other guy let out a huff, a smile breaking in his pained face.

Mara was not a woman given to cries. She picked her way down the bank with her skirts clutched above the wet grass, cursing the loose shale beneath her boots. The boy was soaked through, but his clothes - though torn and fouled with sand - were not village cloth. The shirt had once been fine.

“Up, then,” she said, though he could not hear her. “If you’ve come this far, don’t make me drag a corpse.”

His eyelids trembled.

She turned him carefully, bracing his shoulder against her knee, and water spilled from his mouth. He coughed once, and it was a hard animal sound. His eyes opened without fixing on her. They were gray, or green, or perhaps only reflecting the sea. But that mattered little. A living child had no need of poetry.

By the time two men came down from the smokehouse, she had his head lifted and one hand pressed between his shoulders. He shook under her palm.

“Fetch blankets,” she told them. “And don’t stand there looking solemn. He’s not dead enough for that.”

They obeyed because people usually did when Mara Fen spoke in that tone, and because no one in Tarrow wanted responsibility for a drowned boy before breakfast. They carried him up between them with his bare feet dragging, and if any of them noticed the signet ring tied on a cord beneath his shirt, none of them said so in the wind.

Mara saw it properly when she stripped the wet clothes off him by the hearth.

Gold did not belong on children who washed up nameless on a village shore. That was a thing for fancy tales, not plain folk on plain days. Even so, it lay against his too-thin breastbone. It was heavy and bright in the firelight, and stamped with a crest she’d only seen once before on a tax seal nailed to the granary door. A rearing stag, crowned.

The boy was barely conscious. His lips had gone blue. Mara held the ring in her wet fingers for the length of one crackle from the hearth, then pushed it back beneath the blanket and tucked the wool tight under his chin.

“Well,” she said to the empty room, “that’s trouble with a face on it.”

Trouble slept (fitfully) for two days.

He swallowed down broth because Mara set the spoon against his mouth and waited with the grim patience of a woman who had outlasted storms, debts, two husbands, and three village priests. (Each one more pinch-faced than the last.)

On the second day came the fever. She tended her chores as he sweated through her spare sheets.

On the fifth day he woke properly, his hand flying to his throat before he knew where he was.

Mara caught his wrist.

“Still there,” she said.

The boy froze. His eyes found her, then the hearth, the drying nets hung from the rafters, the shelf of chipped cups, the small square window looking toward the lane.

“What’s your name?” she tried to make her voice soft, but she was a tough old thing and knew it well. Crackshell Bay didn’t breed softness, after all.

He swallowed. His voice came rough from salt and disuse. “I don’t know.”

That was the first lie he gave her, and not a skillful one. Her own brothers - gods keep them - could lie better than that when they were half his age. But no matter.

Mara nodded and dipped the spoon back into the bowl. “Then I’ll call you Rowan until you improve.”

He looked down at the blanket. His fingers curled into it where the ring lay hidden underneath. “I can’t stay.”

“You can’t stand, neither.”

His mouth tightened. Mara had raised no children of her own, but she had helped birth and bury enough nieces and nephews and cousins to know the look of a boy trying to make himself into an island.

“You can leave when you can walk to the well and back without falling into my cabbages,” she said. “Until then, you’ll eat.”

He did.

Days took shape around him. Sleep. Broth. Bread softened in goat’s milk. The scrape of Mara’s chair across the flagstones. Rainwater in the bucket. Smoke in the rafters. The village bell striking noon with no more ambition than it had shown the day before. Tarrow was a knockabout scrap of nothing on an unimpressive shore, and the boy began to breathe inside its dullness as if dullness meant safe.

Mara gave him old clothes from a chest under the bed. They’d belonged to a nephew who’d taken the kings shilling and never come back. They hung loose from his shoulders at first, though his strength returned faster than flesh. He learned where she kept the kindling. He carried water in two small trips instead of one large one after the first pail pulled him sideways in the yard. He mended a tear in a net with neat, quick fingers that had not learned the work from hunger, and when Mara noticed, he kept his head down until she moved away.

Mara asked no questions because answers had weight. In Tarrow, weight of that sort brought notice from their betters, which never meant well for plain folks. A nameless boy could sit at her table and burn his tongue on stew. A prince, if that was what the sea had thrown at her feet, belonged to men who would break down doors for fun and call it duty.

So the boy became Rowan because Mara called him Rowan. The village accepted it simply, just as it accepted the weather.

He grew less thin. Color came into his face. He learned to keep his sleeves rolled high when he washed dishes, and he stopped flinching every time a cart rattled over the stones outside.

Spring thinned into early summer. Nets dried faster. Children shouted in the lane until their mothers called them in. Rowan began to laugh quietly at small things. Then one evening Mara dropped an onion into the ash bucket, swore at it with such bitter precision that he choked on his bread, and the laugh came out of him clear and startled. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Mara pretended to inspect the onion.

“There,” she said. “Not dead after all.”

He looked down, but the corner of his mouth stayed lifted.

For three more weeks, they went on like that.

Then the soldiers came.

They rode in at midmorning, six of them in dark leather and road-stained cloaks, with the royal stag worked in dull thread on their shoulders. Their horses muddied the lane without apology. Dogs went silent behind fences. At the baker’s, a woman pulled her child back so sharply the little girl dropped the heel of bread she had been chewing.

Mara was at the market stall with a basket over one arm and Rowan beside her. He had insisted he was strong enough to carry the meal sack. He was stronger now, yes. Tall enough to look older from a distance. Still too young in the face when he forgot to guard it.

The first soldier unrolled a notice and nailed it to the post outside the alehouse.

The hammer blows carried across the square.

Rowan stopped breathing before he moved. Mara felt the change beside her, the meal sack slipping lower in his grip, the whole of him drawing inward while the village looked toward the soldiers. His eyes were fixed on the paper.

The soldier’s voice was plainly trained to fill yards and chapels and rooms where no one wanted him. “Boy of twelve years. Dark hair. Gray eyes. May be injured. May be traveling under false name. By order of the Crown, any person concealing him will be treated as a traitor to the realm.”

Rowan’s hand opened.

The sack hit the dirt with a soft, dusty thud.

Mara turned as if only annoyed by spilled meal, but she saw his face. The blood had left it so completely that the freckles across his nose stood out like grit. His lips parted. His right hand went to his throat, then stopped short when he remembered the ring beneath his shirt. He pressed his palm flat against his chest instead, too late to make the movement casual.

The soldier read the notice again.

Rowan began to shake.

It started in his fingers. Then his shoulders. Then his knees, a fine, helpless tremor that made the loose fabric of his borrowed trousers flicker against his legs. He looked smaller than he had on the shore. Terror now did what the sea had not managed: it stripped him of all the careful work he had done to seem ordinary.

Mara stepped in front of him.

Not quickly. Quickness would have been a confession. She bent, set her basket down, and slapped at the spilled meal with the flat of her hand as if the waste offended her more than royal business ever could.

“Pick it up,” she said.

Rowan did not move.

“Rowan.” Her voice stayed low. “Hands.”

He dropped to his knees beside her. Meal clung to his damp palms.

One soldier turned.

Mara heard the shift in the market before she saw him. Conversation thinned. A cart wheel stopped creaking. The butcher’s knife paused in mid-chop. Fear moved through Tarrow with the discipline of long practice. No one ran, no one spoke.

The soldier walked toward them.

His boots stopped beside the spilled meal. Mara could see the mud drying along the seams, the nick in one spur, the leather strap dark where sweat had soaked through. She kept her body between him and the boy as much as bending allowed.

“Old mother,” he said, “stand aside.”

Mara looked up slowly.

She had never liked being called mother by men who had not earned the right to be familiar. She liked it less from a man with a sword and clean gloves. But anger was useless here. She squinted as if a bit addled.

“What?”

“Stand aside.”

“My hearing’s poor when men mumble.”

Behind her, Rowan made a small sound. She shifted her heel back until it touched his knee.

The soldier’s eyes moved past her.

Mara reached for the sack, caught the torn seam, and shook it open between them. Meal dust lifted into the air. The soldier blinked once and drew his chin back.

“Careful,” she snapped. “You’ll track half my supper into the mud before you’ve even bought me a replacement.”

The soldier looked down at her, then at the boy crouched behind her. “You. Face up.”

Rowan’s hands flattened in the dirt.

If he ran, he’d be caught before the well. If he looked up, he might be known. If he stayed frozen, the soldier would drag his face into view and call that proof enough.

Mara slapped the sack against Rowan’s chest.

“Don’t sit there gawping, boy.” she said. “Get it inside before the hens find it.”

His eyes lifted to hers. For one thin instant, everything pressed into the space between them. He wanted her to tell him what happened next. He wanted, with the naked selfishness of a frightened child, for an old woman with flour on her sleeves to be stronger than the Crown.

Mara jerked her chin toward the lane behind the stalls.

Rowan grabbed the sack. He rose too fast and nearly stumbled, but Mara caught his elbow and made the stumble look like clumsiness with a sharp shove.

“Useless boy,” she said, loud enough for the soldier. “Can’t carry meal, can’t keep his feet, eats like I own a mill.”

Rowan ducked his head and went.

The soldier took one step after him.

Mara moved with the bitter economy of age, not blocking him outright, only putting herself where his next step would have to acknowledge her body. She lifted the basket back onto her arm.

“You owe me for what’s spoiled,” she said.

The square held still around them. The notice snapped against the post in a small gust, and the horse nearest the well stamped once, impatient with human ceremony. Down the lane, Rowan’s footsteps faded, uneven at first, then faster where the stalls hid him.

The soldier’s jaw tightened. He was young enough to dislike being made ridiculous and old enough to know that arresting an old woman over a sack of meal would make him even more so. He looked again toward the lane, but Rowan had vanished behind the cooper’s shed.

Mara waited with her basket digging into the crook of her elbow. Waiting was also a tool. The old knew this. So did hunters, debt collectors, and anyone who had survived the king’s men.

At last the soldier pulled a coin from his purse and threw it into the dirt.

Mara looked at it. Then at him.

“That’ll buy the sack,” she said. “Not what was in it.”

His face darkened, but one of the riders called his name from the alehouse, impatient and sharp. He left the second coin with less ceremony, dropping it so it struck a stone and spun before settling near Mara’s boot.

She did not bend for it until he had turned away.

Only then did the village resume its noises, carefully, one at a time: a knife coming down through bone, a bucket handle creaking, a child beginning to cry after holding it in too long. Mara picked up both coins and the empty basket. Her knees complained when she straightened.

She found Rowan in her root cellar, wedged behind the turnip bins with the meal sack clutched to his chest and his forehead pressed against the wall. The air smelled of earth and old apples. Light from the open hatch cut across the packed floor and stopped short of his boots.

He was still shaking.

Mara climbed down slowly, closing the hatch most of the way above her. The cellar dimmed. Outside, the soldiers’ horses shifted in the lane, leather creaking, metal ringing once against stone.

Rowan did not look at her. “They’ll come here.”

His voice was almost gone.

“Likely.”

“They’ll search.”

“Likely.”

He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, and when he spoke again, the words broke around it. “You should tell them.”

Mara stood among the bins with dirt under her fingernails and royal coin warm in her pocket. She could not see all of his face, only the edge of his cheek and one wide, wet eye in the cellar gloom. He had been a prince before the sea took him, and perhaps he would be one again if the world insisted hard enough, but just then he was a boy in borrowed trousers who had forgotten how to breathe without permission.

“No,” she said.

He shut his eyes.

Mara reached for the old potato sacking on the shelf and shook the dust from it. “Get behind the apple crates. Pull this over your legs. If a rat runs over you, you let him pass.”

A startled, miserable sound escaped him, almost a laugh and almost a sob.

“There,” Mara said, and pushed the crates aside with her hip. “Still not dead.”

Above them, a fist struck the cottage door. Once. Then again.

Rowan flinched so hard his shoulder hit the wall.

Mara took his chin in her hand before he could fold farther into himself. His skin was cold. His eyes opened and fixed on hers, too bright in the dark.

“Look at me,” she said. “You were given to the sea, and the sea made a poor job of keeping you. I don’t intend to do worse.”

The fist struck the door a third time.