#how write

She’s fine for awhile, able to do most of her job, helps Ressler track down known associates of the arms dealer they’re trying to find. She takes pain pills for her headache and drinks tea for her throat that’s starting to get scratchy and tries to focus when Reddington talks.

Liz makes it a few days, but eventually her body gives in and she finds herself unable and unwilling to get out of bed one day. Her body is trembling from her chills, but she can feel the sweat pooling under her back. She feels gross and terrible but she can’t bring herself to unwrap from the blankets she’s wrapped around her body. She doesn’t even bother trying to fumble for her phone to call in; they’d wrapped up the case the day before so she’s not really expected back at the site.

She does, however, make sure to have her service weapon within reach. Which comes in handy when she’s woken up by the sound of heavy footsteps coming through her front door. Her vision is blurry but her hand is steady as she points the pistol at her bedroom door, finger resting to the side of the trigger like Sam taught her all those years ago.

Liz breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t lower her arm when he steps through her door. He stops in the threshold, looking at her over the rims of his amber sunglasses, fingers the brim of his fedora in his hands and says, “Oh, Lizzy.” She finds herself a little annoyed instantly, but she’s too tired to voice it. Her hand starts to shake where she’s still holding it up, so she thumbs on the safety and lets her arm fall back to the bed.

“You look terrible,” Red says, and she instantly regrets lowering her weapon. She groans in response and sticks her arm back under the cover, closing her eyes to the late afternoon sun. She hears him move closer to the bed and feels him move her pistol to the bedside table before settling at her side.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but she can feel him watching her. Finally, after what feels like forever, she cracks one eye open and stares at him. The space between his brows is furrowed and he’s chewing the inside of his cheek like he does. She heaves a heavy sigh and grunts out a sharp “What?!” with what little energy she has. It makes her throat hurt and she wishes she could push him off the bed.

“You look terrible,” he says again, but there is something in his voice this time that sounds almost like guilt. He runs a hand over her forehead and it feels like a cool glass of water against her skin. She wants him to keep doing it forever, but he moves it soon enough. She tries following it for a moment, but her head starts to throb and embarrassment hits her.

“Jackass,” she huffs out, cracking her eyes open again to glare at him before letting them drift close once more. “This is your fault, you know?” It comes out scratchy and low and her throat is on fire when she finished, but now she feels vindicated. If she hadn’t been so worried about him when he was sick, if he hadn’t been so clingy, she wouldn’t feel like Death.

She feels more than hears him get up again and she listens as he makes his way through her bedroom to the bathroom. She hears the water running and lets the sounds of domesticity lull her into relaxation. It’s why she startles a little when he sits back at her side and runs a cool cloth against her forehead. Her body breaks out into instant goosebumps, but it feels amazing against her clammy skin.

Liz should thank him, should show her gratitude because he’s obviously here to help her get better. Instead, she groans lightly and settles further in bed. She cracks an eye open and glares at him, waits for him to catch her eye before she says anything. “Your fault,” she mutters and lets her eyes close, already falling into a doze.